r 

LIBRARY 

{      UNrvEfiSITT  Of 
V.      CALIFOtNIA 


i   I    B    l|    K    I|    Y 

No...:/.:? /.... 


LORD    N  I  A  L, 


©  M  A  N"  ©  31 


IN  FOUR  CANT03. 


THE   WIZZARD'S    GRAVE, 


THE 


ORIGIN   OF   BACCHUS,   ETC. 


BY  J.  M.  M.  00 K£ 


'  On  Lough  Xeagh'§  banks  as  the  fisherman  strays, 
When  the  clear  calm  eve  'a  declining  ; 

le  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 
In  the  waves  beneath  him  shining." 

MOORE. 


NEW  YORK: 
JOHN  DOYLE,    12,  LIBERTY  STREET. 

M  DCCC  XXXIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  ISM,  by   Mason  &  Co  ,  in  the 
Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


Mason    &    Co.    Print.    New    York, 


753 


TO  DANIEL  O'CONNELL,  ESQ. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  : 

As  one  to  whom  the  welfare  of 

Ireland  is  dearer  than  any  thing  else,  either  in  this  world  or 
out  of  it,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  inscribe  to  you  this  little  volume 
as  a  slight,  but  sincere,  testimony  of  my  gratitude  for 
your  glorious  and  unbending  efforts  to  alleviate  the 
sufferings  of  that  most  unhappy  country.  I  will  make  no 
apology  for  essaying  to  save  my  name,  from  a,  perhaps, 
merited  oblivion,  by  the  introduction  of  yours  ;  for,  though 
the  result  of  my  effort  should  be  deemed  unworthy,  the 
motive  that  led  to  it  was  pure,  and  as  such  I  feel  it  cannot 
be  altogether  unacceptable.  I  have  scarcely  a  hope  that  you 
will  ever  notice  this  volume  —  less,  that  you  will  waste 
any  of  your  invaluable  time  in  the  perusal  of  it,  and  yet  I 
would  fain  seduce  you  to  the  task  :  —  I  would  tell  you  that 
the  plot  of  the  chief  story  is  laid  among  the  most  sublime 
and  beautiful  portions  of  your  own  beautiful  county  — 
that  the  subject  is  FREEDOM,  and,  above  all,  that  it  is  the 
production  of  one  to  whom  even  his  very  doubtful  chance  of 
fame  is  dearer  than  life  and  fortune,  and  yet  v;ho  would 
cheerfully  relinquish  all  claim  to  it  —  if,  by  so  doing, 
he  could  in  any  way  advance  the  prosperity  of  your  beloved 
Erin. 

Believe  me,  Dear  Sir,  to  be  your's  most 
devotedly  for  ever, 

THE  AUTHOR. 

New  York,  March,  1834. 


512 


PREFACE. 

I  WILL  not  trouble  the  reader  with  my  reasons 
for  publishing  this  volume,  and  yet  there  are 
some  even  more  binding  than  those  of  profit  or 
ambition.  Neither  will  I  detain  him  with  long 
arguments,  eulogising  its  merits,  or  apologising 
for  its  defects  —  the  one  (if  he  takes  pains)  he 
will  be  enabled  to  discover  of  himself  —  the 
critics  will  save  him  the  trouble  of  looking  for 
the  other;  and  so,  without  further  comment,  I 
shall  make  my  obeisance  in  the  words  of  Byron, 
and  commit  myself  to  the  storm: 

Gentle  reader,  and 

Still  gentler  purchaser,  the  bard  —  that's  I, 
With  due  permission,  shakes  you  by  the  hand, 
And  so  your  humble  servant,  and  good  bye ; 
We  '11  meet  again  if  we  should  understand 
Each  other,  and  if  not,  I  shall  not  try 
Your  patience  further  than  by  this  short  sample ; 
!T  were  well  if  others  followed  my  example. 

NEW  YORK.  J.  M.  M. 


LORD  NIAL. 


IT  was  at  the  close  of  a  pleasant  day,  in  the  latter 
end  of  April,  in  the  year  18 — ,  that  a  travel 
ler,  who  seemed  weary  of  his  way,  entered 
a  little  village  within  a  short  distance  of  the  lakes 
of  Killarney,  in  the  south  of  Ireland.  He 
approached,  and  left  behind  him,  though  with 
some  hesitation,  the  village  inn  ;  for  his  eye  had 
caught,  and  evidently  lingered,  on  the  "  Dry 
lodging  and  good  entertainment  for  man  and 
beast,"  that  seemed  to  bow  to  him  from  the  swing 
ing  sign-board  as  he  passed.  However,  the  im 
pression  was  not  lost,  for  our  traveller  had  hardly 
proceeded  a  hundred  paces  further,  when  the  sky 
suddenly  lowered,  and  a  heavy  shower  so  decided 
his  wavering  opinions  in  favor  of  good  enter 
tainment,  that  he  returned  by  the  run. 

McDermott  was  such  a  man  as  you  would 
pause  to  look  at — young,  handsome,  and  by  his 
eye  an  enthusiast ;  but  his  faded  cheek,  and  vete 
ran  garb,  denoted  him  to  be  on  rather  so-so  terms 
with  the  world.  Were  there  a  few  more  furrows 
on  his  brow,  he  might  have  been  a  superannuated 


3  LORD  NIAL. 

curate :  as  it  was,  he  was  most  likely  a  poet, 
worn  to  the  stump  like  an  old  goose-quill  on  his 
first  epic,  and  now  just  set  out  in  quest  of  a 
patron — we  say  just,  because  there  was  an  occa 
sional  dash  of  hope  in  his  glance,  which  told, 
plainly  enough  (if  such  was  the  case),  that  at  all 
events  he  had  not  been  very  long  on  the  road. 

Mine  host  of  the  village  inn  was  something. of 
an  oddity ;  for  lacking  all  anticipation  of  profit, 
he  welcomed  his  guest  with  a  warm  heart  and  an 
open  hand ;  he  had  seen  him  linger  in  the  first 
instance,  and  it  struck  him  at  the  time  that  his 
only  reason  for  not  sojourning  then  was,  that  he 
had  not  the  wherewithal  to  purchase  a  welcome. 
"  He  is  wrong,"  thought  the  publican  ;  and  had 
such  been  the  case,  the  publican  would  have  been 
perfectly  right ;  for  there  was  a  virtue  in  the 
seedy  coat,  and  hollow  cheek,  of  the  stranger, 
that  gave  him  a  more  decided  and  acknowledged 
claim  to  the  hospitality  of  Tom  Murphy,  than  if 
he  had  worn  the  costume  of  a  prince.  However, 
as  was  subsequently  discovered,  it  was  neither 
the  poverty  of  his  heart  or  pocket  that  obliged  the 
traveller  to  take  the  road  under  the  damning 
influence  of  a  shabby  coat. 

**###*## 

Supper  being  over,  Mrs.  Murphy  mixed  a  jug 
of  punch  for  her  husband  and  his  guest,  and  sat 
down  on  a  boss  by  the  fire-side,  to  hear,  and,  if 
occasion  occurred,  take  part  in  the  conversation. 


LORD  NIAL.  3 

The  rain  had  turned  out  to  be  more  than  an 
"April  shower;"  for  it  still  made  an  audible 
clattering  on  the  roof,  and  the  low  sugh  that  was 
just  beginning  to  whistle  round  the  house,  gave 
certain  indication  of  the  coming  storm, 

11  It  is  an  awful  night,"  observed  Murphy,  "  and 
if  it  continues  till  twelve  o'clock,  there  will  be 
close  fists  and  sour  faces  among  the  farmers  by 
the  morrow." 

"  As  how?" 

"  It  is  only  a  foolish  tale,  sir.  but  we  poor 
folks  about  the  water  here  can't  help  believing  it 
for  all  that,  it  so  often  turns  out  to  be  true.  Some 
people,  indeed,  use  very  wise,  and  seemingly 
incontrovertible,  arguments  about  chance,  and  so 
forth  ;  but  it  often  struck  me  as  very  singular, 
that,  so  far  as  regards  the  meeting  of  April  and 
May  in  tears,  or  sunshine,  as  they  call  it,  Chance 
always  behaves  herself  as  if  she  went  by  clock 
work.  You  have  no  doubt  heard  of  a  mighty 
prince  that  formerly  lived  in  these  parts,  named 
O'Donohoe." 

The  stranger  assented. 

"  Then  of  course  the  story  is  old  with  you  ;  so 
I  will  merely  subject  you  to  the  fag  end  in  expla 
nation  of  the  close  fists  and  sour  faces.  After 
many  years  spent  in  promoting  the  glory  and 
happiness  of  his  people,  he  one  day  like  the 
present  (the  last  of  April),  sent  an  invitation  to  his 
friends  and  vassals  to  meet  him  at  his  castle  on 


4  LORD  NIAL. 

the  following  morning.  At  the  hour  appointed, 
he  rode  into  the  court-yard  where  they  were  as 
sembled,  mounted  on  his  favorite  white  charger, 
and  to  the  indescribable  astonishment  and  grief 
of  all,  informed  them  that  he  was  about  to  take  a 
last  leave  of  his  beloved  subjects  for  ever.  After 
a  most  affectionate  farewell,  he  proceeded  slowly, 
and  with  an  air  of  mysterious  grandeur,  towards 
the  lower  lake,  and  in  the  sight  of  thousands  who 
followed  to  witness  the  result,  rode  over  the  water, 
nor  did  his  horse's  hoofs  appear  to  make  any 
more  impression  on  the  surface  of  the  deep,  than 
if  it  had  been  a  plain  of  marble.  Arrived  in  the 
centre,  he  reined  his  steed  and  bowed  three  times 
to  the  admiring  spectators,  when  the  water  at  his 
command  opened  beneath  and  received  him  into 
its  bosom  for  ever.  His  subjects  mourned  him 
rather  as  one  that  was  absent  than  dead ;  for  he 
was  often  seen  early  in  the  mornings  of  summer, 
astride  of  his  white  steed,  riding  over  the  lakes, 
followed  by  ten  thousand  beings  all  as  bright  as 
angels.  In  time,  however,  as  sin  crept  more  into 
the  world,  his  visits  became  less  frequent,  and  for 
many  years  he  has  never  honored  Lough  Des 
mond  with  his  presence,  save  when  he  comes  to 
celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  day  that  he  retired 
from  our  world,  and  as  the  harbinger  of  a  sunny 
summer  and  plentiful  harvest ;  for  there  is  an  old 
tradition  that  whenever  May  sets  in  clouded  by 
an  April  storm,  he  fails  to  make  his  appearance 


LORD  NIAL.  5 

and  so,  of  course  leaves  the  unfortunate  farmers 
to  the  dismal  anticipation  of  blighted  crops  and 
light  profits."  ' 

"  Do  you  believe  the  story?"  inquired  the 
stranger,  in  a  trembling  tone,  and  bending  for 
ward  to  hear  the  reply. 

"Faith  !"  answered  mine  host,  "  I  can  hardly 
tell ;  for  I  sometimes  find  it  difficult  enough  to 
separate  that  which  I  believe  in  sooth,  from  that 
which  I  merely  believe  for  the  sake  of  fashion." 

McDermott  started  at  the  reply.  "  What !"  said 
he,  hending  his  dark  eyes  on  those  of  the  publi 
can,  "  do  you  think  it  possible  for  a  man  to  force 
himself  into  the  belief  of  any  thing,  against  the 
warranty  of  his  own  judgment1?" 

"Thus  far  I  do;  man  is  ever  loath  to  divest 
himself  of  the  opinions  adopted  and  cherished 
when  a  child;  as  an  instance  —  often  have  I  sat 
trembling, though  with  sensations  far  less  allied  to 
terror  than  delight,  while  my  mother  and  her 
host  of  gossips,  seated  round  a  blazing  fire  of  a 
winter's  evening,  gave  their  various  accounts  of  the 
last  May-day  procession  on  the  lakes.  Then 
would  some  of  them  describe  the  very  texture  of 
the  garments  of  the  water-king  and  his  attendants, 
on  of  course  'indisputable  authority,'  nor  was 
even  the  motto  of  '  ERIN-GO-BRAGH,'  on  their 
banners,  forgotten.  Then  a  child,  I  believed 
them ;  and  so  is  the  memory  of  those  dear  hours 
interwoven  with  my  present  ideas  of  things,  that  J 


6  LORD  NIAL. 

would  fain  believe  them  still  —  nay,  scarce  dare 
do  otherwise,  although  some  books  which  I  have 
read  on  the  subject,  and  my  own  better  judgment 
in  an  unprejudiced  hour,  tell  me  that  such  things 
are  not  in  accordance  with  the  system  of  nature." 
"And  wherefore  not  !"  exclaimed  the  traveller, 
leaping  to  his  feet,  in  the  very  agony  of  enthu 
siasm.  "  What  is  there  in  the  system  of  nature, 
as  you  call  it  (which  would  be  more  religiously 
expressed,  the  system  of  God),  that  renders  the 
existence  of  such  beings  even  improbable  ?  Is  it 
not  the  opinion  of  the  most  enlightened  among 
men  that  there  are  certain  invisible  agents  among 
us,  who  direct  our  actions,  or  even  influence  our 
motives  ?  and  is  it  not  a  most  happy  and  holy 
opinon ;  for  he  who  can  believe  in  the  existence 
of  a  spirit,  can  never  cease  to  believe  in  the  exist 
ence  of  his  God,  You  will  allow  that  there  is 
not  a  wasted  particle  in  the  creation ;  then  think 
you  that  the  ponderous  ball  on  which  we  stand  is 
an  unprofitable  mass,  from  the  surface  to  the 
centre  ?  O  no,  no  !  The  Omnipotent  has  formed 
abodes  in  the  more  beautiful  and  hidden  recesses 
of  earth,  where  men  of  eminent  virtue  are  still  per 
mitted  to  reside,  even  undivested  of  their  mortal 
appendages.  Reason  sanctions  the  belief. — Is  it 
to  be  supposed  that  the  frames  of  men  whose  lives 
have  been  devoted  to  the  service  of  their  fellows, 
shall  mingle  in  corruption  with  the  murderer  and 
the  traitor  ?  Shall  the  heart  that  delighted  in  vir- 


LORD  NIAL.  7 

tue  be  rendered  incapable  of  it,  and  forced  to 
share  in  the  oblivion  of  time  with  that  which 
revelled  in  impiety  ?  I  at  least  know  to  the 
reverse.  —  Listen  and  believe : 

"  I  was  a  short  time  since  engaged  in  writing  a 
poem,  commemorative  of  the  achievements  of  a 
patriot  chief,  who,  it  was  supposed,  had  long  since 
fallen  a  martyr  to  the  cause  of  freedom.  One 
night,  while  dreaming  of  my  hero,  my  chamber 
was  illuminated  by  a  glow  of  the  most  resplen 
dent  light,  and  a  figure  stood  before  me,  the  coun 
terpart  of  one  that  had  often  previously  been  con 
jured  up  by  my  own  imagination.  His  countenance 
was  of  an  unearthly  beauty  —  the  image  of  an 
eternal  youth  that  time  has  no  effect  on,  and 
his  bearing  such  as  would  have  graced  an  embo 
died  representative  of  the  god  of  War.  For  a  time 
the  noble  vision  (or  what  seemed  a  vision)  gazed 
on  me  in  silence,  and  then  with  a  voice  of  majesty, 
yet  soft  and  exquisite  as  the  music  of  an  an  angel's 
lute,  addressed  me  thus  :  '  McDermott,  thou  art 
engaged  in  writing  the  history  of  a  being  whose 
fate  is  a  mystery  to  man  —  the  history  of  one 
that  was  mourned  as  dead,  but  who  still  lives  and 
before  thee  ;  more  than  this  I  am  not  permitted 
to  reveal;  but  as  the  first  sunbeams  dance  o'er 
the  waves  of  Mucross  on  the  next  May  morn,  be 
thou  upon  its  shore,  and  thou  shalt  be  in  posses 
sion  of  that  which  is  now  a  secret  to  the  world.' 
At  this  moment  I  opened  mine  eyes,  for  the  vision 


8  LORD  N1AL. 

had  been  seen  with  the  eyes  of  my  soul  —  it  was 
gone — all  was  darkness  around  me,  and  not  a 
vestige  remained  of  what  had  so  lately  been  there, 
save  a  most  odoriferous  perfume ;  yet  there  was 
nothing  fragrant  in  the  room,  except  a  few  wild 
and  withered  flowers  which  I  had  culled  some 
days  previous  on  the  bank  of  a  streamlet  in  the 
mountain.  The  morrow  will  be  the  first  day  of 
May,  and  to  the  very  purpose  of  making  trial  as 
to  the  truth  of  the  vision  of  my  chamber  came  I 
hither  —  from  whence  it  matters  not  —  nor  will 
it  ever — the  last  that  loved  me  is  at  rest,  and  the 
friendless  are  never  missed.  —  Laugh  not  till  you 
know  the  result — but  you  will  not;  your  eye 
assures  me  that  you  have  too  much  judgment 
to  sneer  at  a  thing,  like  some  others,  because 
it  may  chance  to  be  out  of  the  range  of  your 
conception.  But  it  approaches  midnight  — 
farewell  now  —  I  must  be  waiting  at  my 
post." 

Here  the  enthusiast  rose,  and  in  spite  of  all 
remonstrance  (for  the  storm  had  reached  its 
zenith)  took  his  leave,  and  sallied  forth  in  the 
direction  of  the  lake.  Murphy,  however,  had 
insisted  on  lending  him  his  frieze  fearnought,  and 
on  extorting  a  promise  for  his  return  on  the  mor 
row. 

The  first  of  May  was  ushered  in  with  all  its 
attributes  of  beauty ;  every  appearance  of  the 
storm  was  obliterated,  and  the  villagers,  as  they 


LORD  NIAL.  9 

proceeded  to  their  daily  toil,  were  congratulating" 
each  other  that  the  change  had  taken  place  imme 
diately  before  the  ominous  hour  of  midnight.  — 
The  sun  was  now  in  the  second  quarter  of  the 
heavens,  and  mine  host  of  the  village  inn  was 
sitting  on  a  bench  at  the  door,  enjoying  his  morn 
ing  pipe,  when  he  was  apprized  of  some  person 
approaching  at  a  brisk  pace,  and  in  a  moment 
after  he  had  clasped  the  extended  palm  of  his 
guest  of  the  preceding  night. 

A  person  skilled  in  the  mysteries  of  the  human 
countenance  might  have  read  a  wondrous  tale  in 
that  of  McDermott  —  bursting  eye-balls,  quiver 
ing  lips,  and  a  more  than  ashen  palidness  of 
brow,  which,  however,  at  times  was  instantly 
suffused  (and  but  for  an  instant)  with  a  headlong 
gush  of  the  deepest  crimson,  forced  upwards 
through  some  long  forsaken  channel,  and  making 
it  but  too  evident  how  unsystematically  his  heart 
was  discharging  its  functions. 

"  My  friend!"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  long  to  unbo 
som  myself;  and  you  (or  I  am  misaken  in  your 
eye)  will  have  no  objection  to  hear  my  tale." 

Murphy  was  all  impatience  —  so  was  his  wife, 
who  now  came  bustling  forward  to  welcome  the 
stranger,  and  who,  it  seems,  had  risen  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual  in  consequence,  as  she  expressed 
it,  of  not  being  able  to  go  to  sleep  for  dreaming 
"  several  times,  indeed,  during  the  night,  she  had 
heard  music  and  seen  lights  in  the  room  ;  and 


10  LORD  NIAL. 

more  than  once  had  found  herself  behind  a 
great  prince  on  a  white  horse,  which,  thank  God, 
turned  out  to  be  only  a  dream  after  all ;  for,  grand 
as  he  was,  she  wouldn't  have  taken  him  in  ex 
change  for  Tom  Murphy! !" 

"  Then,"  resumed  the  stranger,  in  a  tone  of 
mysterious  vivacity,  "  I  will  soon  have  proved  to 
you  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt,  that  your 
mother  and  her  gossips  were  right,  and  also  that 
Lord  Nial,  a  patriot  chief,  who,  it  was  supposed, 
had  perished  in  those  days  when  freedom  ceased 
to  wave  her  banner  in  Erin,  is  still  living,  en 
shrined  in  a  goodlier  frame  of  flesh  and  blood 
than  either  of  us  —  nay,  search  me  as  you  will, 
my  friend,  I  am  serious  —  by  Heaven,  I  am  seri 
ous  !  and  if  a  lie  knowingly  pollutes  my  lips  dur 
ing  the  recital  of  my  adventure,  may  it  be  the  last 
word  that  my  tongue  shall  ever  utter. 

"  When  I  arrived  at  Mucross  last  night,  though 
the  storm  had  abated,  still  the  troubled  waters 
were  boiling  and  roaring,  as  if  a  spirit  was  toss 
ing  them  from  their  deepest  springs.  It  was  a 
noble  sight ;  the  white  crested  waves  flashing  in 
the  moonbeams,  and  combined  with  the  heaven 
of  beauty  by  which  I  was  surrounded  (for  Mu 
cross  is  all  a  heaven),  it  would  have  fully  indem 
nified  me  for  my  few  days  of  toil,  was  I  even  not 
blessed  with  a  view  of  the  wonders  that  followed. 
The  hour  had  ceased  to  wear  that  cold,  grey 
appearance  which  properly  can  be  designated 


LORD  NIAL.  11 

neither  night  or  day  —  poets,  I  think,  call  it  the 
earlier  dawn —  and  the  eastern  horizon  had  just 
begun  to  assume  a  more  brilliant  appearance  than 
any  other  portion  of  the  heavens,  though  the  sun 
was  still  beneath  the  wave,  as  if  seeking  with  its 
own  resources  to  deck  a  throne  meet  to  receive 
the  monarch  of  luminaries,  when,  sudden  as  the 
sweep  of  a  whirlwind,  the  waters  all  rushed  as  if 
from  their  centre,  with  a  tremendous  roar,  against 
the  surrounding  banks,  and  then  receding  again 
with  equal  violence,  became  clear  and  unruffled 
as  a  mirror.  Yes,  I  assure  you,  Murphy,  they 
appeared  as  if  robed  in  chrystal  ice,  being  even  free 
from  that  breezy  tremble  which  agitates  the  living 
wave,  though  independent  of  the  gentlest  zephyr; 
and  which  is  perchance  the  native  stir  of  its  own 
sensations. 

"  I  said  the  sun  was  still  invisible  —  but  at  this 
instant,  and  seemingly  arrayed  in  more  than  usual 
splendor,  he  darted  from  the  sea,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  white  mist,  which  I  could  liken  to  nothing 
but  a  silver  veil,  rose  gradually  around  the  lake 
to  about  the  attitude  of  a  lofty  sorbes.  This 
enclosure  encroached  neither  on  land  or  water, 
being  apparently  thinner  than  the  fleecy  gauze  of 
a  wedding  garment ;  but  still,  while  impalpable 
as  a  shadow,  it  was  impenetrable  as  a  barrier  of 
steel  ;  for  though  nothing  susceptible  to  the  touch 
met  my  hand,  yet  all  my  efforts  could  not  force  it 
through. 


12  LORD  NIAL. 

"  Heavens  !  could  I  believe  mine  ears  —  mine 
eyes?  —  at  once  the  voices  of  a  thousand  lyres 
swelled  through  the  firrnanent,  while  ten  thou 
sand  forms,  whose  beauty  more  than  realized  my 
brightest  dreams  of  the  elect  in  glory,  stood  before 
me  on  the  azure  waters  of  that  sleeping  lake.  — 
The  men  (for  men  they  were  —  not  the  flimsy 
phantoms  that  our  bards  are  wont  to  describe 
them  —  but  youthful,  noble,  palpable,  and  athletic) 
were  almost  all  warriors,  equipped  after  the 
fashion  of  by-gone  days,  with  helmet,  plume, 
scarf,  lance,  and  corslet ;  but  such  was  the  lustre 
of  their  armor,  that  it  flung  a  halo  around  them 
sufficiently  evident  even  amid  the  gathering  glory 
of  a  cloudless  sun.  But  who  shall  describe  the 
dames  —  their  dresses,  and  their  beauty  ?  I  at  all 
events  profess  my  inability ;  for  there  stood  not 
one  amidst  that  host  of  seraphs  whom  it  would 
have  been  idolatry  to  have  worshipped.  They 
assembled  not  as  the  multitude,  but  forming  in 
pairs  filed  at  regular  intervals  around  the  brink. 
And  O  !  how  different  that  pageant  from  a  mortal 
procession !  There  lover  mourned  not  for  lover, 
—friend  for  friend  —  all  were  happy  —  all  were 
mated  !  —  all,  said  I?  ah,  no  !  there  was  one  — 
one  exception  ;  and  that  —  a  maid." 

Here  McDermott  faltered,  and  he  failed  in  his 
endeavors  to  suppress  a  sigh  —  there  was  evi 
dently  some  connexion  between  his  feelings  at  the 
moment  and  that  solitary  maid  —  however,  a 


LORD  NIAL.  13 

moment's  pause  composed  him,  and  he  again 
continued  : 

"  It  were  tedious  to  describe  their  successive 
movements  and  evolutions  —  their  various  orders 
of  knighthood  —  the  different  processions  of  their 
banners,  and  the  devices  of  their  shields  ;  al 
though  by  the  latter  I  could  have  named  many  a 
warrior  in  that  multitude  then  all  life  and  beauty, 
whose  requiems  had  been  sung  more  than  a 
thousand  years  before. 

"A  line  of  heralds,  harpers,  pages,  &c.  now  ad 
vanced,  denoting  the  vicinity  of  the  prince.  I 
heard  the  rustling  of  his  chariot  wheels  on  the 
water  —  two —  four  — eight,  milk-white  coursers 
passed  me,  when,  seated  on  a  throne,  magnificent 
beyond  the  loftiest  flight  of  human  fancy  —  the 
vision  of  my  chamber  appeared.  Yes,  I  could 
not  be  deceived;  I  may  forget  the  countenance  of 
the  father  that  begat  me  —  the  mother  that  bore 
me ;  but  the  majestic  sweetness  of  thine,  immor 
tal  Nial,  can  never,  never  be  effaced  from  my 
memory.  Beside  him  sat  a  dame,  the  sublimity 
of  whose  charms  claimed  more  than  a  poet's  pass 
ing  gaze  —  I  knelt  to  her  as  she  glided  by  ;  and 
be  the  penalty  as  it  may,  the  homage  of  my  heart 
at  that  minute  was  little  less  than  adoration.  O  ! 
that  I  could  unbosom  her  beauties  as  they  are 
interwoven  with  my  inmost  soul  —  eyes  of  such 
ethereal  azure,  that  they  shamed  the  very  heavens 
of  a  May-day  morn — chesnut  tresses  all  unbraided 


14  LORD  NIAL. 

and  rich  in  beauty  as  the  golden  streaks  of  an 
autumn  sunset,  floating  in  ten  thousand  luxuriant 
and  native  ringlets  to  her  snowy  shoulder,  but 
leaving  her  high  brow  bare,  from  which  my 
enamored  vision  shrunk  abashed  as  if  it  felt  it 
would  have  been  too  much  of  happiness  to  linger 
on  any  thing  so  miraculously  fair. 

"  When  this  beautiful  being  and  her  lord  had 
passed,  I  observed  through  the  vista  between 
them  and  the  next  two  figures  in  succession,  a 
minstrel  detach  himself  from  a  group  in  the 
centre,  and  approach  the  spot  where  I  stood.  — 
His  lyre  was  suspended  from  his  shoulder,  and  in 
his  right  hand  he  held  a  book,  of  which,  by  the  air 
of  complacency  with  which  he  seemed  to  survey 
it,  I  presumed  him  to  be  the  author.  He  had 
arrived  within  a  pace  of  the  brink,  when  the 
silvery  mist  for  about  a  foot  on  either  side  rolled 
back  like  a  scroll,  leaving  a  space  through 
which  he  presented  the  volume,  with  this 
brief  sentence:  "  Nial  redeems  his  pledge." 
While  reaching  out  my  hand  to  receive  it,  I  had 
bent  mine  eyes  upon  the  ground,  whether  by  an 
effort  of  mine  own,  or  through  the  influence  of 
some  mightier  power,  I  can  scarcely  tell ;  but  on 
again  raising  them,  with  intent  to  see  the  giver, 
whom  I  had  begun  to  thank  —  lo !  he  was  gone 
—  the  bright  pageant  —  the  silver  wall,  were 
no  more ;  the  waters  had  aroused  them  from  their 
mystic  slumbers  ;  and  now  ten  thousand  of  those 


LORD  NIAL.  15 

white-crested  gigantic  waves,  which  fishermen  call 
the  manes  of  O'Donohoe's  horse,  were  dashing 
about,  with  even  more  than  wonted  fury,  as  if 
rejoicing  at  their  escape  from  that  mystic  bondage. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  add,  save  that  Lord 
Nial  bowed  to  me  in  token  of  recognition  as  he 
passed  —  save  that  —  but  no  !  I  may  not  reveal 
it — however,  the  time  will  come,  say  this  day 
twelvemonth,  when  all  shall  be  explained. 

"  Here  is  the  book,"  said  McDermott,  in  con 
clusion  of  his  ^wondrous  tale,  "with  it  rests  the 
proof  of  all  that  I  have  told  you." 

Thus  saying,  he  produced  from  his  pocket  a 
small  black  bound  volume  of  Celtic  poetry.  "You 
see,"  said  he,  "  it  is  in  Irish  ;  and  my  task  is  to 
translate  it :  better,  to  be  sure,  far  better  the 
labor  of  that  bright-eyed  minstrel  of  the  water 
in  its  own  native  strength,  than  after  being  mo 
delled  to  suit  the  whims  and  fancies  of  a  more 
grovelling  genius.  It  is  even  so,  Murphy  !  the 
tame  of  spirit  will  ever  denounce  or  clip  down 
to  their  own  level  the  outbreathings  of  the  warmer 
soul ;  even  on  the  same  principle  that  rooks  will 
mock  at  the  flight  of  the  eagle,  either,  because 
they  have  no  sympathy  with  things  more  noble 
than  themselves,  or  because  they  cannot  accom 
pany  him  on  his  way.  —  But  what  can  I  do  ?  — 
have  we  not  substituted  the  mixed  jargon  of  fifty 
tongues  for  our  own  beautiful  and  poetic  lan 
guage  ?  and  so,  if  I  give  the  Celtic  version  of  my 


16  LORD  NIAL. 

poem,  it  cannot  find  readers  even  in  Irishmen; 
for  alas  !  the  few  who  yet  dare  to  speak  the  lan 
guage  of  their  country,  are  in  general  confined 
to  those  to  whom  poverty,  or  oppression,  has 
denied  the  privilege  o'f  education. 

******** 
McDermott  took  up  his  residence  with  mine 
host,    and    became  the   tenant  of  a     little   back 
chamber,  from  whence  there  was  a  partial  view 
of  the  most  beautiful  lakes  in  the  world.      His 
habits  were  reserved,  but  not  singular,  save  inas 
much  as  he  was  the  gentlest  and  most  charitable 
of  the  human  race.      Next  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  task,  books  were  his  idols;  nor  were  those 
which  engaged  him  most  such  as  might  nerve  the 
excitement  of  a  maniac  —  a  well  thumbed  Bible 
occupied  the  most  distinguished  situation  of  his 
library.     But  still  his  malady  continued  unabated, 
still  would   he  discourse  of  the  pageant   on  the 
waters  —  describe  the  beauty  of  his   chieftain's 
bride —  dwell  on  the  magnificence  of  her  chariot 
—  on  the   excellence  of  the  music — the  noble 
bearing  of  the  warriors,  and  so  forth;  but  when 
ever  he  S].,okeofthe  single  solitary  maid,  there 
was  that  in  his  voice  and  eye,  which  told  plainly 
that  he  thought  more  of  her  than  of  all  the  rest 
together. 

Murphy  had  often  watched  him  while  engaged 
in  his  labors,  and  at  times  he  fancied  he  could 
trace  a  similitude  between  the  English  and  the 


LORD  NIAL.  17 

Celtic  manuscript ;  however,  he  might  have  been 
mistaken  —  he  could  not  swear  —  nor  did  he 
ever  dare  to  hint  it  to  his  guest,  whom,  whatever 
his  wife  might  urge  to  the  contrary,  he  now 
firmly  believed  to  be  under  the  influence  of 
some  strange  delusion. 

We  observed  before  that  he  was  not  so  desti 
tute  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  as  would  seem 
from  his  appearance ;  the  arrival  of  much  ex 
pensive  baggage  a  few  days  after  himself,  was 
the  best  warranty  of  this  ;  but  he  lavished  his 
wealth  with  an  unsparing  hand  —  as  one,  in 
deed,  who  did  not  intend  to  be  long  a  sojourner  in 
a  world  where  without  it  man  is  nothing. 

It  was  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  that  he 
first  came  to  the  village  when,  with  a  smiling 
brow,  he  entered  the  breakfast  parlor,  holding  a 
book  in  his  hand. 

"  Here,"  said  he  to  Murphy,  "  is  the  fruit  of 
my  twelve  months'  labor,  and  after  all  I  fear 
it  is  little  better  than  a  parody  on  the  original.  — 
However,  I  have  done  my  best ;  Ossian  could 
have  done  no  more  ;  and  it  is  to  you  I  now  be 
queath  it,  to  make  it  public  when  you  list ;  for  I 
must  be  away  tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow?" 

"Even  so,  I  must  anticipate  the  sun." 

"  But  to  return  ?" 

"  The  ways  of  Providence  are  inscrutable ;  I 
may  —  hereafter   I   may  ;    but  not  to   claim  a 
c* 


18  LORD  NIAL. 

home.  A.S  I  will  have  but  little  need  of  baggage 
on  the  way,  the  trifles  that  were  mine  are  yours. 
Be  careful  of  the  Bible,  for  the  sake  of  an  absent 
friend  —  it  was  my  mother's. 

Before  Murphy  could  answer  him,  he  was 
gone  —  gone  to  leave  his  last  donation  with  a 
few  poor  people  in  the  neighborhood,  who,  for 
the  last  twelve  months,  had  chiefly  subsisted  on 
his  bounty. 

For  some  time  the  publican  and  his  wife  sat 
gazing  at  each  other  in  stupid  amazement.  Mc- 
Dermott  had  entwined  himself  around  their 
hearts  :  they  loved  him,  dearly  loved  him  :  so  no 
wonder  that  the  idea  of  losing  him,  and  so  soon, 
was  too  much  for  their  philosophy:  besides,  until 
this  moment,  he  had  never  mentioned  a  word 
about  his  intended  departure. 

"  Tomorrow  will  explain,"  thought  Murphy, 
now  recurring  to  the  mysterious  expression  of 
his  friend  twelve  months  before.  "  If  he  took  his 
own,  there  might  be  some  secret  reason  for  his 
removal ;  but  why  leave  them  his  property1?  why 
needlessly  throw  himself  on  the  world  unpro 
vided  ?  Good  God  !  could  he  be  meditating  sui 
cide  !" 

"  There  is  something  bad  in  it,  at  any  rate," 
sobbed  the  afflicted  landlady,  crossing  herself  at 
that  awful  exclamation,  "  it  is  not  for  nothing  the 
cat  broke  the  looking-glass  last  week,  and  has  n't 
the  death-watch  been  ticking  all  about  the  house 


LORD  NIAL.  19 


ever  since  the  night  that  Molly  Rooney,  the 
lucky  woman,  sa\v  poor  Mack's  fetch,  with  a 
short  candle  in  its  hand,  jumping  into  the  pool  of 


The  day  wore  dismally  to  its  close.  Murphy 
used  all  the  arguments  he  could  devise  to  induce 
his  friend  to  stay,  hut  in  vain ;  his  only  answer 
was  a  hopeless  sigh,  or  a  still  more  hopeless 
"  impossible." 

At  length  he  was  standing  up  to  retire  for  the 
night,  when  the  publican  laid  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  spoke  as  follows,  his  eye  the  while 
glistening^  with  a  tear,  and  his  voice  trembling 
with  emotion : 

"  I  know  not  by  what  power  you  have  linked 
yourself  so  closely  with  our  affections ;  was  it  by 
your  money?  No,  our  hearts  acquit  us  of  the 
thought.  God  knows  our  friendship — our  love 
(for  you  are  dear  to  us  as  one  of  our  own  children) 
is  not  mercenary.  Oh  !  McDermott,  my  honored 
friend,  if  your  generous  hand  and  heart  have 
been  too  open  for  your  abilities,  and  that  for  such 
reason  you  are  going  to  do  —  Heaven  only 
knows  what,  —  but  I  have  fearful  suspicions, 
banish,  O  banish  the  idea  —  remain  with  us,  and 
be  the  partaker  of  a  purse,  which  your  gene 
rosity  has  left  any  thing  but  empty  —  Murphy 
were  a  greater  scoundrel  than  ever  disgraced  his 
name,  from  its  founder  downwards,  if  he  would 


20  LORD  NIAL. 

not  cheerfully,  should  your  necessity  require  it,  part 
with  his  last  shilling  in  your  service.  Alas  !  it  is 
useless ;  you  will  not ;  —  I  read  it  in  your  eye, 
you  will  not  stay.  God  grant  that  I  may  have 
no  reasonable  foundation  for  the  idea,  but  much 
I  fear  that  the  destination  of  the  journey  you  are 
about  to  undertake,  is  the  grave."  Here  the  poor 
fellow,  overpowered  by  his  feelings,  sank  back 
wards  in  his  chair,  and  shading  his  face  with  both 
his  hands,  wept  audibly.  His  wife  and  children 
followed  his  example,  while  McDermott,  with  a 
bosom  swelling  with  sorrow,  waving  them  a  last 
good  night  —  hurried  from  the  room. 


It  was  now  past  midnight,  and  Murphy  and  his 
wife  were  sitting  over  the  expiring  embers  of  a 
wood  fire,  into  which  they  were  poring  for  some 
thing  that  might  elucidate  their  doubts  (for  certain 
appearances  in  fire  are  regarded  as  ominous  by 
the  superstitious  of  most  countries),  when  they 
were  startled  by  a  shrill,  piercing,  and  unearthly 
cry.  Both  ran  to  the  door,  for  the  voice  came 
from  the  street,  and  there  they  beheld  by  the 
moonlight  an  exceedingly  tall  woman,  clad  in  a 
snowy  raiment,  running  in  the  direction  of  the 
lake,  to  which  she  was  pointing  with  her  long, 
meagre  arm.  In  an  instant  she  was  out  of  sight, 
and  the  terror-stricken  publican  and  his  wife 


LORD  NIAL.  21 

closed  the  door,  under  the  firm  conviction  that 
they  had  seen  a  banshee. 

With  fear  increasing  for  the  safety  of  their 
guest,  they  proceeded  up  stairs,  and  into  his 
apartment.  Mysterious  powers  !  'he  was  gone — 
yet  the  window  \vas  fastened  on  the  inside,  and 
there  was  no  other  way  of  egress  in  the  room  ; 
neither  had  he  escaped  in  visible  form  by  the 
doors,  for  to  have  done  so,  he  must  have  passed 
through  the  apartment  where  they  were  sitting. 
Indeed,  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  watching  him 
that  they  had  remained  up  so  long  ;  for  the  pub 
lican  had  determined,  as  a  last  extremity,  to  have 
dogged  him  on  his  way  —  an  idea  of  which  had 
very  likely  occurred  to  the  poet,  and  determined 
him  on  leaving  the  house  by  stealth.  The  way 
he  effected  it  could  never  be  discovered ;  the 
more  they  surmised  the  more  they  were  involved 
in  a  labyrinth;  at  length,  impatient  of  conjecture, 
Murphy,  arousing  the  servant-girl  to  keep  her 
mistress  company,  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  fling 
ing  himself  on  a  horse,  without  any  rein  but  his 
stable  halter,  galloped  at  a  furious  rate  on  the 
road  to  Mucross.  He  intended  to  have  gone  in 
another  direction  to  a  grove,  which  had  been  a 
favorite  resort  of  his  friend  ;  but  Shelah,  scorning 
all  admonition,  refused  to  move  a  step  on  any 
road  but  the  one  she  chose  ;  at  length,  yielding  to 
her  obstinacy,  the  impatient  rider  exclaimed,  "  Take 
your  own  way,  you  jade !  but  God  be  your 
guide." 


22  LORD  NIAL. 

The  dawn  was  breaking,  and  it  was  such  a 
morning  as  McDermott  has  elsewhere  attempted 
to  describe,  when  Murphy  arrived  within  about 
three  hundred  paces  of  the  lake  ;  but  no  further 
could  he  proceed  ;  for  his  mare,  as  if  she  had  under 
gone  an  instant  transformation  from  flesh  to  mar 
ble,  stood  suddenly  still.  "  O  for  the  spur  of  Fin 
Mallin"  for  at  that  moment  the  glorious  sun  bound 
ed  up  the  heavens,  revealing  to  his  astonished  and 
delighted  eyes  his  dear,  and  as  he  had  thought, 
utterly  lost,  friend,  standing  upon  the  margin  of  the 
wave.  His  appearance  was  as  that  of  a  person 
in  a  very  ecstacy  of  pleasure  ;  —  his  hands 
clasped  and  close  to  his  breast  —  his  right  shoul 
der  raised  to  a  level  with  his  ear  —  and  his  eye 
fervently  bent  upon  the  deep,  —  which,  —  by  the 
way,  seemed  to  the  publican  as  if  enveloped  in  a 
thin  veil  of  white  hoar.  Brief  was  the  joy  of 
poor  Murphy ;  —  what  seemed  the  figure  of  his 
friend,  turning  round,  waved  him  an  adieu;  then 
wheeling,  with  his  face  towards  the  flood,  stood  in 
attitude  to  plunge.  "  Thus,  dearest,  am  thine 
forever !"  he  exclaimed  —  they  were  his  last 
words;  just  then  Shelah  was  loosed  from  her 
invisible  fetters,  and  dashed  toward  the  spot  —  it 
was  too  late  ;  the  form  had  disappeared,  but  how, 
remained,  and  remains,  a  mystery.  It  did  not 
appear  to  sink  or  to- resolve ;  but,  as  it  were,  in 
stantly  to  become  nothing.  It  is  true,  when  the 
distracted  horseman  thundered  down,  he  perceived 


LORD  NIAL.  23 

a  circle  forming  rapidly  upon  the  water  as  if 
caused  by  the  sudden  immersion  of  some  large 
and  heavy  substance;  but  the  spot  was  too  shal 
low,  and  the  wave  too  clear  to  have  concealed  a 
pebble  from  his  search,  much  less  the  body  of 
a  man  nearly  six  feet  high. 

For  three  successive  weeks  the  lake  was 
dragged  every  day,  and  every  inquiry  made 
throughout  the  country,  but  in  vain ;  nothing 
positive  could  ever  be  heard  of  the  fate  of  that 
mysterious  stranger,  neither  has  he  left  any  docu 
ments  by  which  he  can  be  traced  to  his  earlier 
home,  or  which  give  any  clue  as  to  the  cause  of 
his  singular  derangement ;  but  he  was  often  ob 
served  to  kiss  a  small  hair  locket,  which  he  ever 
wore  suspended  by  a  ribbon  round  his  neck.  — 
Haply  he  was  the  victim  of  love ! 

When  the  first  burst  of  grief  had  subsided,  and 
he  was  mourned  as  a  first-born  child,  —  Murphy 
collected  his  little  effects  together,  which,  how 
ever,  were  of  no  great  value  —  the  soul  of  his 
lost  friend  was  too  bountiful  to  brood  over  trea 
sure  in  a  chest  —  but  such  as  he  left  were  kept 
sacred  as  the  relics  of  a  saint.  'T  is  true  his 
broken-hearted  landlady  sought  for  the  black 
book  with  intent  of  committing  it  to  the  flames,  as 
the  source  of  all  her  guest's  misfortunes  ;  but 
no  where  was  that  black  book  to  be  found.  The 
translation  had  well  nigh  shared  the  fate  intend 
ed  for  the  original  ;  but  her  hand  was  stayed  by 


" 


24  LORD  NIAL. 

the  remembrance  that  it  was  the  production  of 
a  beloved  friend  —  and  long  was  that  friend 
sincerely  lamented  in  the  hamlet  —  and  if  the 
heart-sent  prayers  of  mortals  can  be  of  any  serv 
ice  to  the  souls  of  the  departed  —  McDermott,  if 
dead,  is  at  rest. 


eanto 


LORD    NIAL. 


Canto  JFfrst 

THE  sun  on  many  an  Eden  looks, 

And  glads  their  bowers,  and  gilds  their  brooks, 

What  time  he  first  unrobes  his  breast, 

And  floats  at  morn  on  Indian  main, 
Till  the  red  waters  of  the  west 

Have  wooed  him  to  their  charms  again  ; 
And  many  a  vale  his  beams  make  glad, 
And  many  a  hill,  with  wild  flowers  clad, 
And  many  a  mountain,  crowned  with  snow, 
And  many  a  cascade's  foamy  flow, 
And  many  a  lake's  transparent  glow, 

Rejoices  in  his  ray  ; 
But  O!   he  lights  not  in  his  line, 
From  morn's  first  blush  till  eve's  decline, 
Such  hills  and  flowers  and  floods  as  thine, 

Dear  subject  of  my  lay. 


28  LORD  NIAL. 

0  for  a  bower  on  Mona's  hill, 
Where  I  might  sit  and  sing; 

1  'd  trace  thy  glories  with  a  quill 

Plucked  from  an  eagle's  wing ; 
So  might  my  aspirations  rise 

Where  e'er  his  wing  should  soar, 
Now  cleaving  heavenward,  lo  !    he  plies 

On  realms  unknown  to  pore ; 
And  now,  forsaking  clouds  and  skies, 

He  turns  to  earth  once  more,  — 
Where  yonder  cloud-crowned  rocks  expand 

Above  the  current's  breast, 
Defying  the   destroyer's  hand, 

Behold  the  "Eagle's  nest." 

Or  lay  me  by  thy  wild  cascade, 

O  Sullivan  !     whose  deep  brown  shade 

Obscures  from  human  eye 
Thy  phrenzied  foam  —  no  partial   gleams 
Atween  the  thick  set  sorbos  streams, 

To  tell  when  thou  art  nigh; 
And  expectation,  mute  the  while, 

Delighted,  tracks  the  dark  defile  ; 

Yet  not  unmixed  with  fear; 
For  though  the  task  entrancing  be, 


LORD  NIAL. 

And  dear  thy  deep  wild  harmony, 

'T  is  terrible  to  hear. 

The  strangling  streams  and  dark  wood  past, 
The  torrent's  bed  is  gained  at  last, 

And  topling  precipice. 
Go  hide  thy  head,  presumptuous  Art ! 
What  claim  hast  thou  upon  the  heart 

To  rival  scene  like  this  ? 
Untired,  the  live  long  day  I  'd  gaze 

Upon  thy  lonely  shore, 
And  sing  to  thee  my  song  of  praise, 

And  time  it  to  thy  roar. 

Where  shall  I  find  thy  mate,  Lough  Lane  ? 
I  've  searched  the  lovely  world  in  vain, 
And  turning  to  my  bower  again, 

Hung  raptured  on  thy  shore  ; 
And  thought  on  all,  or  bright  or  vast, 
I  gazed  on  since  I  saw  thee  last ; 
But  as  the  mental  vision  passed, 

I  prized  thee  more  and  more ; 
For  O,  beneath  the  heavens  there  's  not 
So  deeply  blest  —  so  dear  a  spot. 
Whate'er  our  fancies  may  create, 
Whate'er  our  souls  would  contemplate,  — 

D* 


30  LORD  JSIAL. 

Wood  —  valley  —  mountain  —  garden  —  grot, 

And  streams  meandering  flow. 
By  heaven  !   it   is  a  noble  sight, 
From  tall  Groom  Glauna's  heath-crowned  height, 
— When  clouds  are  few,  and  winds  are  light, 
And  Sol  looks  down  in  noontide  might, — 

The  scene  that  burns  below. 
But  O,  when  storms  are  on  the  wing, 
When  floods  descend,  and  whirlwinds  ring, 
When  cloud  on  cloud,  disordered,  driven, 
Sweep  o'er  the  darkened  arch  of  heaven, 

And  lightning  tears  the  hill : 
When  curls  the  white  steed's  foamy  mane, 
Along  the  tortured  waves  of  Lane, 
When  thunders  shake  the  mountains  round, 
And  echo  roars  with  seven-fold  sound, 

'T  is  even  more  glorious  still. 
O  't  is  a  world  so  wild,  so  fair, 
So  free  from  earthly  stain  and  care, 
An  angel  might  seclude  him  there, 

Content  through  endless  hours ;  — 
Might  leave  his  home  beyond  the  skies, 
To  bask  in  beam  of  beauty's  eyes, 
In  such  an  earthly  paradise, 

Nor  sigh  for  heavenly  bowers. 


LORD  NIAL.  31 

******** 

'T  was  evening,  still  the  broad  sun  gave 

His  glories  to  the  world  beneath, 
And  all  was  peaceful  as  the  grave, 

And  bright  as  martyrs'  dreams  of  death  ; 
And  many  a  stately  mansion  towered 
From  groves  of  sorbos  half  embowered  ; 
But  now  they  seemed  all  desolate,  — 
The  moss  was  gathering  at  the  gate  — 
No  living  thing  had  passed  of  late  — 
And  music  breathed  of  love  no  more  — 
And  every  thing  the  semblance  bore 
Of  bloody  hearth,  and  naked  wall, 
And  chieftain  slaughtered  in  his  hall, 
And  ravished  maid,  and  strangled  heir; 
— The  hand  of  rapine  had  been  there. 
But  one  amidst  the  rest  there  stood 
Upon  the  margin  of  the  flood, 
Which,  if  magnificence  could  bless, 
Had  been  the  home  of  happiness. 
'T  was  all  so  beautiful  to  view, 
You  feared  it  was  as  transient  too. 
For  0!  it  seemed  a  thing  of  air, 
Not  built,  but  raised  by  magi  there; 
Some  beautiful,  but  baseless  thing, 


32  LORD  N1AL. 

That  came  and  went  on  fairy  wing  — 
More  bright  than  aught  of  earth  could  be, 
But  lacking  earth's  solidity; 
For  as  it  quivered  in  the  ray, 
It  seemed  in  act  to  fade  away. 

Before  that  blissful  solitude 

There  rose  a  barrier  broad  and  rude, 

Of  huge  and  rugged  rocks  uppiled, 

On  other  each  sublimely  wild, 

As  if  to  keep  from  earthly  ken 

Its  more  than  earthly  splendor  then. 

A  gentler  fence  might  better  screen 

The  vale  of  beauty  pent  between; 

For  'midst  that  theatre  of  rocks 

An  Eden  smiled,  whose  glory  mocks 

Conception  —  no,  my  fancy  still 

Mirrors  that  garden  bright  and  strong ; 
But  0  the  minstrel  lacks  the  skill 

To  weave  its  beauties  with  his  song. 

There  glanced  and  laughed  the  silver  rill, 
There  dashed  the  torrent  from  its  hill, 
And  beds  of  wild  flowers  breathed  and  bloomed 
While  nature  gazed  so  calm  that  hour, 


LORD  NIAL.  38 

The  lingering  breezes  they  perfumed 

Scarce  stirred  the  tendril  of  a  flower ; 
And  these  were  in  their  summer  blow, 
•Though  Turk  still  wore  his  cap  of  snow, 
And  such  their  odor  and  their  glow 
They  kept  the  wild  bee  on  the  wing, 
Entranced,  yet  shy,  and  wondering 
To  find  a  world  of  buds  more  fair 
And  fragrant  than  its  own  flowers  there. 
And  there  was  many  a  grot  so  neat, 
With  moss  and  stone  and  shell  replete, 
And  many  a  beautiful  alcove 
Too  lone  and  fair  for  aught  but  love. 
But  ye  who  woo  their  charms,  beware  — 
The  tempter  hath  his  dwelling  there, 
On  banks  of  velvet  buds  reclined; 
And  such  his  influence  o'er  the  mind, 
When  hands  are  clasped,  and  lips  are  pressed, 
That  reason  might  be  lulled  to  rest. 
And  there  were  banks  and  caves  and  dells, 
And  winding  pathways  paved  with  shells, 
And  brooklets  flowing  to  the  brink, 
And  wild  deer  bending  there  to  drink, 
And  young  birds,  with  their  hearts  of  glee, 
Reaping  about  so  meirily ; 


34  LORD  NIAL. 

And  a  thousand  other  beautiful  things,  — 

The  bull-bird's  song,  and  his  shining  wings, 

And  the  noble  river  that  rolled  below, 

In  a  calm,  unruffled  but  sweeping  flow, 

Fed  by  a  hundred  tribute  streams, 

That  leaped  into  his  breast  like  beams, 

Thus  wasting  the  flow  of  their  mountain  pride, 

To  swell  the  wave  of  one  mightier  tide. 

Even  such  is  man.     As  we  singly  shine, 

We  are  each  in  ourselves  a  thing  divine, 

But  mixed  in  the  crowd  of  a  king's  array, 

Are  lost  in  his  splendor,  and  borne  away. 

Imagine  the  Eden  you  pine  to  see  — 

Imagine  whatever  a  star  may  be  — 

Look  by  the  light  of  your  fancy  round, 

And  engender  an  image  of  fairy  ground ;  — 

Look  to  the  home  of  the  soul  above, 

And  embody  a  vision  of  bloom  and  love,  — 

And  then,  when  your  spirit  can  strain  no  more 

When  fancy  and  hope  have  ceased  to  soar, 

The  brightest  birth  of  your  toil  will  fail 

To  rival  the  bliss  of  that  mountain  vale, 

As  it  shone  that  hour  to  my  raptured  view, 

And  then  it  was  all  so  lonely  too  ! 


LORD  NIAL.  35 

Beside  a  fountain  where  the  ray 

Of  sunset  trembled  through  the  shade 

Of  a  tall  laurel,  fair  as  May, 
Reclined Was  that  an  earthly  maid? 

Could  such  transcendent  beauty  be 

The  dowry  of  mortality ! 

Come  thou !  O  thou,  whose  deaf  blue  eye 

First  made  me  what  I  may  not  tell  — 
That  secret  must  forever  lie 

Locked  in  my  breast  as  in  a  cell. 
Come  thou  !   O  thou,  whose  name  inspires 

The  minstrel's  hope,  the  minstrel's  strain  — 
Who  bade  me  wake  the  slumbering  wires, 

Yet  told  me  they  were  waked  in  vain  ; 
Come  to  my  soul's  conception,  come  — 
Over  the  desert  and  the  foam  — 
Which  heaven,  or  chance,  or  what  you  choose, 
Fling  'twixt  the  minstrel  and  his  muse, 
Believe  me  —  yes !  no  aid  I  seek 
From  the  twin-sisters  of  the  Greek; 
Should  other  muse  my  thoughts  command, 
I  rhyme  alone  by  head  and  hand, 
The  language  flows,  the  numbers  chime; 
But  where  's  the  soul  should  light  the  rhyme? 


36  LORD  NIAL. 

I  clasp  my  breast,  my  brow  in  vain, 
There  breathes  no  spirit  o'er  the  strain, 
And  if  that  spirit  e'er  shall  wreath 
One  verse  to  save  my  name  from  death, 
Twining  it  with  the  locks  of  time, 
'T  is  thou  that  must  inspire  the  rhyme. 
Come  to  me,  then,  my  spirit's  light ! 
That  as  I  wake  the  chords  tonight, 
I  may  describe  the  charms  that  hung 
Round  that  lone  form,  so  fair,  so  young, 
While  gazing  upon  thy  bright  brow, 
For  she  was  then  what  thou  art  now. 
But  vain  my  spirit's  loftiest  thrill ; 

Those  charms,  though  mirrored  in  my  breast, 
Even  as  the  passions  they  instil, 

Are  all  too  deep  to  be  expressed. 

I  might  her  cheek  of  bloom  define, 
And  brow  of  snow,  and  eye  of  fire ; 

But  that  which  made  them  most  divine 
Belongs  not  to  the  poet's  lyre. 

A  gust  of  impulse  from  within, 

As  from  a  mind  undoomed  to  sin ; 

A  living  halo,  bright,  benign, 

The  very  mockery  of  decline, 


LORD  NIAL.  37 

A  deep  mysterious  charm  unknown, 
Something  far  more  than  soul  alone; 
At  least,  the  souls  that  worm  their  way 
From  out  our  chambers  of  decay, 
Dimmed  ere  their  glories  reach  the  eye, 
By  the  base  shrines  in  which  they  lie. 

Her  form  was  as  her  face,  a  thing 

The  minstrel  may  not  praise  or  sing; 

And  yet,  its  loveliness  was  such, 

He  could  not  praise  or  sing  too  much; 

So  full  of  life,  and  bloom,  and  glow, 

Sure  none  but  woman's  could  seem  so; 

Yet  all  so  buoyant,  slight,  and  fair, 

You  }d  deem  its  home  was  in  the  air ; 

That  little  sympathy  it  felt 

With  the  base  clod  on  which  it  dwelt. 

In  sooth,  she  was  in  all  too  fair 

For  habitant  of  this  bleak  world; 
And  yet  there  lurked  a  tinge  of  care 

Along  her  cheek,  — and  the  uncurled 
Light  chesnut  tresses,  floating  round, 
In  strings  of  gold,  along  the   ground, 
Disordered,  but  so  lovely  still, 
They  could  not  be  improved  by  skill,  — 


38  LORD  NIAL. 

Portrayed  (hovve'er  she  seemed  to  be 

The  creature  of  a  nobler  birth) 
That  she  had  known  the  mystery 

Of  sorrows,  only  known  on  earth. 

Her  garb  was  simple,  —  save  her  zone, 

Nor  gem,  nor  pearl,  their  lustre  lent  ; 
Her  loveliness  was  all  her  own, 

Nor  needed  art's  embellishment. 
She  held  an  ivory  lyre,  inlaid 

With  gems  all  sparkling,  and  so  bright, 
It  seemed,  beneath  that  laurel's  shade, 

As  they  were  melting  into  light ; 
And  as  her  fingers  swept  the  chords, 

She  sang,  and  with  such  wondrous  skill, 
The  echo  of  her  sorrowing  words 

Seems  ringing  through  my  memory  still. 
And  the  birds  came  around  her  the  while  she  sang, 
And  the  rocks  to  the  thrill  of  her  wild  notes  rang, 
And  there  was  one  echo  more  strangely  dire 
Than  the  saddest  voice  of  the  mountain  choir; 
But  the  soul  of  music  sublimed  its  gloom, 
As  tho'  it  had  burst  from  some  minstrel's  tomb, 
Who  was  waked  by  the  voice  of  that  mystic  strain, 
And  made  his  lorn  harp  to  respond  again  ; 


LORD  SIAL.  39 

For  it  rose  not  just  as  the  song  arose, 
But  only  chimed  in  as  a  chorus  close. 

SONG. 

He  }s  away  to  the  hills,  I  shall  see  him  no  more, 
For  the  sword  of  the  foeman  is  red  with  his  gore. 
Echo  —  Red  with  his  gore. 

The  banshee  thrice  called  on  his  name  as  she  fled, 
And  the  star  of  his  fortune  looked  murky  and  red. 
Echo  —  Murky  and  red. 

And  I  passed  by  the  tomb  where  his  fathers  lie  low, 
And  methought  they  responded  the  sighs  of  my  wo. 
Echo  —  Sighs  of  my  wo. 

I  will  hie  me  away  to  my  bower  in  the  deep, 
And  I'll  gaze  on  the  hill  where  he  perish'd.&weep. 
Echo  —  perished,  and  weep. 

And  I  '11  hang  up  my  lyre  on  a  lone  willow  tree, 
In  some  desert,  as  emblems  of  sorrow  and  me. 
Echo  —  Sorrow  and  me. 

Her  lyre  falls  from  her  at  the  close, 
But  still  her  bosom's  anguish  flows: 


40  LORD  NIAL. 

"  'T  were  but  a  mockery  to  be  gay, 

Or  I  had  chosen  a  happier  lay  ; 
For  the  dark  fears  that  round  me  glow 
Need  little  aid  from  fancied  wo ; 
But  then,  again,  a  lighter  strain 
Would  only  aggravate  the  pain  ; 
My  spirit  revels  in  its  grief, 
Wo,  wo  its  torture, — its  relief ; 
O !  well  I  deem  this  stubborn  gloom 
Prophetic  of  my  soldier's  doom. 
Could  I  but  join  him  in  his  sleep, 
I  would  not  weep  as  now  I  weep; 
For  then,  however  wild  the  grief, 
'T  were  subject  to  its  great  relief, 
An  hour  of  anguish,  breast  to  breast, 
A  broken  heart,  and  all  was  rest. — 
But  thus  all  ruined,  doomed  to  be 
A  thing  of  mind  eternally  ;  — 
Ay,  through  the  lapse  of  ceaseless  time, 
Without  the  solace  even  of  crime, 

To  linger  o'er  a  vain  regret  ; 
With  all  its  trouble  —  all  its  jar. 
The  human  lot  is  happier  far 

To  rest  and  to  forget. — 
If  withering  things  can  feel  the  glow 
That  racks  a  deathless  maiden  so, 


LORD  NIAL. 

Where'er  my  truant  warrior  pines, 

Whate'er  his  visions  —  his  designs, 

Dare  I  unbreast  the  mystery, 

That  which  I  am  —  what  he  might  be, 

This  night  he  'd  come  to  me  below, 

Leave  death,  leave  vengeance,  glory,  wo, 

Even  though  he  feared  the  plunge  must  sever 

His  spirit  from  its  hope  for  ever. 

But  oh  !  it  may  not  be  —  the  breath 

Of  Samiel  were  a  lingering  death, 

Compared  to  that,  such  word  of  fear 

Would  pour  into  a  mortal  ear. 

Some  dark  allusions  to  our  state, 

(Too  cruelly  indefinite) 

To  raise  the  wonder,  prompt  the  wit, 

Are  all  our  rigid  laws  permit. 

"  Commingled  with  the  heavens  around, 
Which  girdle  in  this  wave  profound, 
The  guardian  monarch  of  our  race 
Reigns  like  a  god  —  pervading  space. 
No  eye  has  seen  his  presence  there, 
Still  indistinct  and  light  as  air, 
Save  when  at  May-day  morn  we  rise, 
To  pay  the  season's  sacrifice, 


42  LORD  NIAL. 

He  robes  him  in  a  hoary  haze, 
Like  summer  dew  on  fields  of  maize, 
To  blunt  the  prying  wonderer's  gaze ; 
Thrice  happy  he,  and' blest  of  men, 
Whose  eye  may  note  our  pageant  then  ; 
For  if  to  mortal's  ken  laid  bare, 
The  bliss  he  sees  he  soon  may  share. 
I  would  not  ask  that  shade  to  lend 

A  solace  for  a  wound  like  mine ; 
'T  were  but  to  aid  me  to  offend  — 

To  break  those  laws  he  knows  divine. 
But  he  can  lift  the  film  sublime, 
That  veils  the  womb  of  unborn  time  j 
Nor  will  he  chide,  if  such  relief 
Can  mitigate  a  maiden's  grief. 
Suspense  is  torture  —  weal  or  wo, 
If  such  his  will,  the  test  I'll  know, 
Hail  mighty  spirit !   Prince  of  Air  ! 
And  hearken  to  your  votary's  prayer." 

Up  rose  the  sorrowing  maiden  then, 
And  knelt  her  by  the  brink  of  Lane, 
So  lowly  that  her  locks  of  pride 
Hung  floating  in  its  golden  tide  ; 
And  he  that  gazed  with  ardent  eye 
Had  seen  a  movement  in  the  sky  — 


LORD  NIAL.  43 

Ten  million  particles  of  space 

All  verging  to  a  central  base. 

And  now  more  palpable  they  grow, 

As  still  concentering,  on  they  go  ; 

And  now  an  outline  marks  the  swarm  — 

And  now  they  darken  into  form  — 

And  now  upon  the  lake  there  shone 

A  rival  glory  to  the  sun, 

For  through  the  broad  heaven's  azure  light 

That  halo  loomed  distinct  and  bright, 

And  in  the  midst  a  being  stood 

Of  more  than  human  magnitude, 

Or  human  glory  ;  —  man  might  bow 

Submissive  —  feel  himself  a  clod, 
Before  that  shade's  eternal  brow, 

And  deem  he  pleaded  to  a  god. 
I  know  him  now  —  his  eye  of  flame, 
Which  tears  could  soften  —  nothing  tame ; 
His  lordly  amplitude  of  breast, 
But,  more  than  all,  his  wolf-dog  crest, 
Reveals  the  hero  to  my  view  — 
—  Hail  to  the  chief  O'  Donohoe ! 

If  loftiest  beauty  were  a  test 

Of  happiness,  that  Knight  was  blest ; 


44  LORD  NIAL. 

But  still  his  brow  bore  more  th'  impress 

Of  sorrow  than  of  happiness ; 

And  yet  upon  its  page  sublime 

Lurked  nothing  that  was  born  of  crime. 

But  he  had  seen  his  home  of  pride, 

The  happiest  isle  on  ocean's  tide  ; 

He  passed  —  and  lo  1  that  isle  became 

A  clime  of  rapine  —  then,  O!   shame  — 

An  abject  thing  without  a  name, — 

Condemned  —  abandoned  —  pillaged  —  riven, 

— A  very  plague-spot  under  heaven. 

This  saw  he,  and  he  curst  the  hand 

That  wrought  such  ruin  to  his  land. 

Even  from  the  mansions  of  the  blest 

He  saw  it,  and  it  vexed  his  rest, 

And  cast  its  shadow  o'er  his  brow, 

And  hence  that  look  of  sorrow  now. 

But  when  the  maiden  caught  his  eye, 

His  brow  grew  cloudless  as  the  sky, 

And  sooth  it  was  a  dangerous  one 

For  lady's  glance  to  rest  upon, 

Nor  could  more  fearful  charms  than  hers 

Draw  spirits  down  for  worshippers  ; 

And  well  that  lordly  vision  knew 

His  duty,  and  performed  it  too. 


LORD  :S7IAL.  45 

His  right  hand  to  his  lips  were  pressed, 
His  left  done  homage  at  his  breast, 
Then  bending  slo\vly  where  he  stood, 
His  right  knee  rested  on  the  flood ; 
He  had  not  learned  on  earth  alone 
The  tribute  due  to  beauty's  throne  — 
So  gracefully  he  paid  it  then, 
So  like  a  god  he  rose  again. 


How  glanced  the  kneeling  girl  that  hour  — 
How  revelled  in  her  beauty's  power : 
Even  misery  for  a  time  was  taught 
To  mingle  in  the  whirl  it  wrought, 
Whate'er  she  was  —  or  mould  or  shade, 
She  triumphed  in  the  homage  paid, 
And  yet  she  trembled  to  make  bare 
Why  she  had  called  that  spirit  there ; 
But  knew  he  aught  of  woman  then, 
JT  would  cost  him  little  skill  to  ken, 
Even  by  her  fears,  to  make  it  known, 
The  cause  was  love  — -  was  love  alone. 
At  length  with  many  a  mingled  sigh, 
She  bared  her  bosom's  mystery. 


40  LORD  NIAL. 

"  Thou  guardian  of  this  sacred  tide  ! 

When  thou  hast  heard  thy  suppliant's  will, 
Ere  yet  thy  lips  begin  to  chide, 
Suppose  thyself  in  manhood's  pride, 

A  thing  of  blood  and  passion  still, 
Even  as  thou  wert  in  by-gone  time. — 

When  he  that  's  pure  to  judge  essays, 
Who  shall  seem  innocent  of  crime, 

If  others  by  himself  he  weighs1? 
So,  thus  :    perchance  thou  mayest  esteem 
My  hope  a  folly  —  love  a  dream  — 
Even  as  thyself  art  placed  above, 
Alike,  the  scourge  of  hope  or  love; 
But  canst  thou  feel,  by  memory's  aid, 

The  pangs  that  rack  the  lover's  breast, 
Thou  wilt  not  chide  that  hapless  maid, 

Who  broke  a  mighty  spirit's  rest ;  — 
One  instant  more,  and  all's  confessed. 
Shall  tyrant's  might  o'erwhelm  the  brave, 
Or  shall  the  freeman  crush  the  slave? 
Must  Erin  ever  bide  the  rein — 
Or  be  herself  '  The  blest'  again  1 
And  what  shall  be  Lord  Nial's  doom  — 
Or  life  with  Mary  — or  the  tomb?" 


LORD  NIAL.  47 


Brief  paused  that  spirit  to  reply, 
— To  make  his  sufferings  known  ; 
For  there  was  anguish  in  his  eye, 
And  sorrow  in  his  tone. 


"  Lady  !  ere  the  morrow's  sun 

Has  cleared  the  mist  from  Mangerton, 

Swords  shall  clash,  and  blood  shall  run ; 

Freedom  sickens  at  the  sight  — 

Infamy  shall  win  the  fight ; 

Foreign  boor  and  foreign  thong 

Shall  long  pollute  your  home  of  song : 

But  when  at  length  its  cup  is  flowing, 

When  all  is  gone  that  's  worth  the  going, 

When  they  who  fear,  betray,  and  hate  her, 

Can  do  no  more  to  desolate  her  ; 

When  even  her  name  's  a  theme  for  jest, — 

Then  comes  the  trial  and  the  test. — 

Heaven  is  more  just  than  in  her  fall; 

The  end  is  vengeance  —  glory,  all ! 

For  after  all  her  miseries  past, 

When  dawns  one  happier  hour  at  last, 

If  vengeance  fail  to  bless  that  hour, 

Even  freedom  were  a  niggard  dower ; 


48  LORD  NIAL. 

Her  primal  glory's  bloodiest  stain, 

Blood  —  blood  alone  —  can  cleanse  again." 


All  this  came  fluent,  note  by  note, 

As  't  were  a  lesson  known  by  rote  ; 

But  here  he  paused,  and  seemed  in  doubt, 

And  then  his  broad  black  eye  he  turned 
To  where  the  day-god  on  his  route 

Toward  the  western  waters  burned ; 
And  when  his  glance  had  ceased  to  roam, 
He  peered  into  the  boundless  dome 
With  such  intensity  of  gaze, 
That  even  amid  that  sunset  blaze 
(Which  to  a  less  celestial  sight 
Had  seemed  to  melt  the  heavens  in  light, 
So  rife  with  all  that  fires  the  thought) 
He  singled  out  the  orb  he  sought. 


"  Upon  Lord  Nial's  natal  star, 

'Mid  signs  of  hardship  —  glory —  war, 

Is  one  lone  spot  of  beauty  shining, 

Beyond  the  scope  of  my  divining. 

I  've  traced  him  to  his  latest  field, 

I  've  seen  him  drooping  on  his  shield  • — 


LORD  NIAL.  49 

His  eyes  were  swimming  for  their  close, 
His  very  arm  had  sought  repose, 
Though  girdled  by  a  host  of  foes. 
It  may  be  death  and  that  bright  flame, 
The  semblance  of  the  hero's  fame ; 
But  nothing  lustrous  to  its  core 
Had  ever  told  of  death  before. 
Whate'er  it  means, — augmented  time, 
Or  glory  reaped  from  future  rhyme, — 
It  leaves  his  final  destiny 
Involved  in  mystery  even  to  me. 
Lord  Nial's  fortune  none  may  tell ; 
Maiden  of  the  Mere  !  —  farewell." 

Again  that  lordly  vision  bowed  — 
Again  resumed  his  bearing  proud  — 
Then  wasting  from  his  centre  slow, 
Grew  faint,  as  spreading  vapors  grow; 
And  now  is  he,  the  "  Pride  of  Lane," 
A  portion  of  the  heavens  again. 

Now  colder  grow  the  heavens,  and  tame, 
Save  in  the  west,  where  all  is  flame ; 
All  gold  and  glory  round  the  verge, 
Still  deepening  downward  to  the  surge  ; 

F 


50  LORD  N1AL. 

Nor  have  the  waters  dimmed  its  ire  — 
Both  tide  and  sky  are  wrapt  in  fire  ; 
But  now  it  wanes  so  faint  and  far, 
Here  peeps  a  planet,  there  a  star  ; 
And  now  the  latest  haze  of  light 
Dies  on  the  wave,  and  all  is  night ; 
And  Cynthia  paley  'gins  to  throw 

Her  lights  along  the   spangled  line, 
Silvering  Mount  Thual's  crowns  of  snow, 

And  Innisfallen's  groves  of  pine. 
And  the  rush  of  the  waves,  or  their  breezy  song,  , 
As  they  leap  from  the  cliffs,   or  go  smooth  along, 
And  that  boundless  twitter,  the  sighs  of  Earth, 
While  giving  her  flowers  and  her  herbage  birth, 
Which  awakes  in  the  heart  such  a  calm  delight, 
But  can  only  be  heard  on  a  peaceful  night  — 
And  the  songs  of  the  nightingales  low  in  the  boughs 
As  they  woo  the  young  roses,  &  warble  their  vows, 
And  the  leap  of  the  trout  from  the  lake  or  the  stream , 
As  they  feast  on  the  atoms  that  dance  in  the  beam ; 
And  the  sigh  of  the  zephyrs,  all  fragrant  then, 
Was  all  you  could  hear  in  that  mountain  glen. 

END    OF    CANTO    FIRST. 


eanto  seconir. 


Canto  ^econt, 

"  Why  sleeps  my  Mary? — the  moon  is  high, 
And  there  's  not  a  cloud  betwixt  earth  and  sky, 
And  there's  not  a  wave  on  the  dark  blue  sea, 

—  Then  awake,  my  Mary,  and  come  to  me  ; 

"  For  t^e  clear  calm  night,  and  its  cloudless  ray— 
Or  the  silvery  breast  of  the  wavelesa  sea, 
Have  no  charms  for  me  when  my  love's  away, 

—  Then  awake,  my  Mary,  and  come  to  me." 

:T  was  thus  a  minstrel  Knight  essayed 
To  chase  the  slumbers  from  the  maid, 
Who  lately  on  that  moonlit  shore 
Was  pining  for  her  troubadour  ; 
And  oft,  full  oft,  his  eye  was  turned 
To  where  a  lonely  taper  burned  — 
F* 


54  LORD  NIAL. 

He  knew  it  lighted  Mary's  bower, 
For  he  had  watch'd  it  many  an  hour, 
When  she  to  whom  he  poured  his  lay. 
Perchance  had  deemed  him  far  away. 

His  noble  roan  beside  him  stood, 

With  breast  and  flank  of  foam  and  blood, 

For  he  had  come  a  weary  road, 

Nor  sought  the  path,  nor  spared  the  goad : 

Nor  came  he  then  like  lover  gay, 

Bedecked  as  for  a  holiday, 

But  cased  in  steel  from  neck  to  knee, 

And  armed  completely  cap-a-pee  ; 

For  he  was  fresh  from  recent  fight, 

A  wooing,  wandering,  "  Red  Branch  Knight." 

A  better  warrior  never  sank, 
His  rowel  in  a  charger's  flank, 
And  if  his  lordly  brow  we  trace  — 
And  monarch  form  and  gait  of  grace  — 
A  statelier  never  woke  a  chord 
Of  worship  to  his  maid  adored. 
Yet  more  that  warrior's  brow  displayed 
Of  war  than  moonlit  serenade  ; 
Nor  was  the  semblance  falsely  worn, 
still  his  life  was  in  its  morn, 


LORD  NIAL.  55 

For  he  was  ftorn  upon  the  plain, 

Mid  shouts  of  triumph  and  of  pain  — 

And  bellowing  hills  and  battle  cry 

Was  his  first  birth-day's  lullaby. 

And  he  was  cradled  in  the  camp, 

On  beds  of  wild  fern  rude,  or  damp, 

For  home,  nor  bovver,  his  mother  knew, 

Save  that  which  screened  her  hero  too. 

And  even  his  childhood's  toys  displayed 

Some  token  of  his  father's  trade. 

A  dagger's  haft  his  teething  gear  — 

His  hobby  horse  some  trooper's  spear — 

His  tutors  every  warrior  wild, 

Who  loved  the  gambols  of  the  child, 

And,  sooth  to  say,  are  none  so  mild. 

The  bravest  still  of  even"  coast 

Delight  in  childhood's  smiles  the  most  — 

For  the  same  impulse  that  doth  move 

The  soul  to  battle,  leads  to  love : 

So  they,  young  Nial's  fostering  clan, 

Were  sires  and  soldiers  to  a  man. 

And  oft  when  swept  the  foe  in  sight, 

And  freedom  haply  lay  in  flight, 

Camp  —  treasure  —  all  —  were  left  in  scorn, 

But  not  the  little  battle  born, 


56  LORD  NIAL. 

Who  chiefly  sped  from  the  attack 
Buckled  to  some  rude  trooper's  back,      . ...n 
That  in  a  distant  home,  may  be, 
Had  some  as  blithe  and  young-  as  he. 
And  as  a  birthright,  still  he  kept 

His  trade  of  battle  —  his  to  boast 
The  first  and  bloodiest  brand  that  swept, 

When  swarming  from  their  own  rude  coast, 
The  wolves  of  Denmark,  wild  for  gore, 
Labored  in  vain  to  win  the  shore 
Their  sires  had  lost  —  and  at  the  time 
Of  base  McDonough's  awful  crime, 
He  mustered  with  the  sacred  few 
Who  fled,  because  they  scorned  to  sue. 


Dejected  —  heartless  —  all  but  slaves  ! 

They  sought  the  mountains  and  the  caves. 

But,  though  their  numbers  hourly  waned, 

By  famine  —  hardship  —  slaughter  —  drained, 

They  gloried  to  be  still  unchained  — 

Still  free  to  perish  ;    for  they  knew 

All  efforts  fruitless  to  subdue 

The  tyrant  league  that  crowded  round  them  — 

That  harrassed,  slaughtered,  all  but  bound  them  ; 


LORD  NIAL.  57 

For  oh !  nor  hope  nor  heaven  could  give 
A  boon  for  which  they  cared  to  live  ; 
For  so  their  hearts  were  seared,  that  even 
Were  freedom  self-vouchsafed  by  Heaven  — 
They  'd  rather  bleed  to  seal  the  dower, 
Than  live  to  share  it  —  Many  an  hour 
Life's  holiest  ties  were  riven  and  gone, 

All  they  most  cherished  laid  to  rest  — 
So,  if  one  hope  still  lingered  on, 

It  was  to  be  no  more  —  or  blest. 

Within  a  mountain's  solitude, 
Forsaken,  crossed,  but  unsubdued  ; 
The  remnant  of  that  sacred  band 
Had  made  their  last,  their  feeblest  stand  ; 
And  there  in  council,  even  tonight, 

Around  their  altars  kneeling  lowly, 
Their  eyes  all  sparkling  with  the  light 

Of  a  deep  fervor,  pure  and  holy, 
Untainted  by  a  stain  of  earth, 
They  poured  their  spirits'  homage  forth  : 

11  The  trump  has  sounded — 

And  the  strife  is  o'er  ; 
Forsa'en  —  surrounded, 

We  can  toil  no  more ; 


58  LORD  NIAL. 

Our  crimes  forgiven, 
And  a  warrior's  grave, 

Are  all  from  heaven 
That  we  need  or  crave. 

"  All,  all  are  hither, 

Or  within  the  tomb, 
None  left  to  wither 

In  a  world  of  gloom ; 
Not  a  tear  of  sorrow 

To  lament  our  fall ; 
For  the  grave,  tomorrow 

Must  receive  us  all. 

"  0  THOU  who  made  us, 

With  such  hearts  of  flame, 
Wilt  Thou  e'er  upbraid  us 

That  we  rushed  from  shame  ? 
Our  hopes  are  too  many, 

And  our  souls  too  free, 
To  bow  to  any, 

Save,  O  GOD  !  to  thee. 

"  Then  grant,  MOST  HIGHEST, 

From  thine  holy  throne, 
By  the  hope  that  reliest 


LORD  NIAL. 

On  thine  aid  alone, 
One  hour  of  glory, 

Ere  our  toil  shall  cease  ; 
And  bosoms  gory, 

And  a  bed  of  peace." 


Even  so  that  band  of  warrior  men 
Poured  forth  their  godlike  feelings  then, 
As  meekly,  but  with  conscious  pride, 

They  asked  of  HIM  who  loves  the  free, 
For  one  bright  hour  before  they  died, 
One  feast  of  swords  in  battle  tide  — 
To  finish  their  career  with  pride, 

And  perish  'midst  the  jubilee. 

Never  was  man  more  deeply  wed 
To  Freedom,  than  the  chief  who  led 
That  band  to  glory —  it  was  he, 

Who  now,  beside  his  charger's  rein, 
Sang  to  his  lyre  so  pensively  ; 

Nor  has  he  waked  the  chords  in  vain  ; 
For  she,  his  spirit's  pole  star,  hung 
All  ecstacy,  the  while  he  sung, 
But  kept  her  sacred  to  his  gaze, 
Until  he  ceased  his  hymn  of  praise  — 


60  LORD  NIAL. 

For  woman  still  delights  to  feel 
Her  empire  even  when  ruin's  by 

—  Delights  to  see  her  votary  kneel 

—  To  hear  his  every  tribute  sigh. 
Thus  Mary  now  ;  but  ere  the  thrill 
Of  his  last  breathing  wire  was  still, 
She  sprang  to  meet  her  love  below  : 

But  how  shall  minstrel  paint  her  charms, 
As,  robed  in  beauty's  brightest  glow, 
She  sank  within  her  warrior's  arms  ? 

A  feeling  deep,  but  undefined, 

Of  her  love's  fate,  had  exiled  now 
That  maiden  coyness  from  her  mind, 
Which  haply  else  at  such  a  meeting, 
Had  urged  her  to  a  colder  greeting, 

To  wear,  perchance,  a  cloudier  brow  ; 
But  now  each  little  wish  to  chide 
Was  borne  before  her  passion's  tide  : 
She  saw  her  love  as  on  a  rock, 
High  tottering  from  an  earthquake's  shock, 
And  ere  that  rock  was  hurled  below, 
Could  she  look  coldly  on  him  1  —  No! 
Ah  no !  that  hour  was  all  too  fleet 
For  love  to  waste  it  in  deceit ; 


LORD  NIAL.  61 

Such  dalliance,  and  at  such  a  time, 

Has  less  of  modesty  than  crime  ; 

On  happier  night  she  had  betrayed 

The  \voman  half —  and  half  the  maid ; 

But  now,  distracted  —  doubting  —  lonely  — 

A  woman  all,  —  a  woman  only, 

She  seemed,  whate'er  she  was,  the  stranger 

Of  every  hope,  of  every  danger, 

From  hell  beneath,  or  heaven  above  her,  — 

But  that  which  darkened  round  her  lover. 

And  now  upon  his  heart  she  lies, 

Her  arms  around  his  shouldeis  thrown, 
Nor  blushed  that  his,  in  ruder  guise, 

Had  formed  a  girdle  for  her  own. 
And  there  they  hung  —  how  still,  how  long, 

The  muse  forbids  her  bard  to  trace  ; 
'T  would  ill  become  his  vulgar  song 

To  note  the  length  of  love's  embrace. 
And  they  were  silent,  each  through  fear 
To  speak  what  each  must  grieve  to  hear  — 
She,  her  lorn  spirit's  imaged  wo, 
And  he,  that  it  was  truly  so.  — 
That  all  was  lost  —  even  hope  below. 
But  what  can  lovers'  lips  conceal  ? 

Words  are  of  life  no  living  part, 

G 


62  LORD  NIAL. 

And  even  at  best  but  half  reveal 

The  hope  —  the  anguish  of  the  heart; 
While  every  stifled  smile  or  sigh 
Is  mirrored  in  the  living  eye ; 
But  though  it  bares  the  spirit's  glow, 
'Tis  chiefly  still  its  glass  of  wo : 
The  beacon  —  the  conductive  power 
Of  passion,  in  affliction's  hour, 
When  every  glance,  or  bares  its  own, 
Or  makes  one  other's  miseries  known  ; 
Now  prone  to  furnish,  now  attract, 
Just  even  as  thunder-clouds  do  act; 
Whiles  grasping  at  the  liquid  chain  — 
Whiles  flashing  back  its  light  again. 

Alas  for  him  who  soon  shall  be 
A  clod,  and  a  nonentity  ! 
Who  knew  the  morrow's  light  must  close 
Around  his  reeking  heart's  repose ! 
'T  is  true,  no  busy  fiend  within 
Gave  note  of  unrepented  sin ; 
No  fear  knew  he  of  future  shame  — 
Of  whitening  frost  and  filtering  flame  — 
And  prison  rock,  and  scorpion  rod;  — 
He  knew  the  stroke,  whene'er  it  came, 
That  made  a  carcase  of  his  frame, 


LORD  NIAL.  C3 

Whould  send  him  to  his  God. 
But  still  a  fear  came  o'er  him  then, 

And  every  glance  confessed     .<•;*•.*' 
That  he  had  rather  breathe  with  men 

Than  dwell  among  the  blessed ! 

The  falsely  valiant,  when  they  go, 

Affect   a  will  to  meet  the  blow, 

But  roistering  speech,  and  ruffian  air, 

Are  still  the  types  of  fear's  despair ; 

Yea,  even  the  self-destroyer  fain 

Would  linger,  though  he  cuts  the  vein. 

The  brave  —  the  wretched  —  or  the  just  — 

May  smile  upon  that  sleep  of  dust ; 

And  yet,  even  they  shall  own,  at  length, 

What  blessed  things  are  life  and  strength  ; 

And  at  the  issue  shrink  before 

That  awful  thought  —  to  be  no  more  ; 

For  as  we  feel  life's  latest  ray, 

Upon  the  margin  of  decay, 

Strange  thoughts  will  crowd  upon  the  brain, 

Not  felt,  or  feebly  felt,  till  then  ; 

Home,  friendship,  and  a  thousand  things, 

To  which  departing  memory  clings 

With  rapture,  —  even  despair  and  strife 

Woo  the  lorn  spirit  back  to  life. 


64  LORD  NIAL. 

But  are  they  lover  —  then,  O  then, 

(But  are  they  loved  in  turn  again, 
By  one  torn  heart,  still  doomed  to  throb 
Alone  amidst  the  desert  mob  ?) — 

So  far  as  may  become  such  men, 
The  world  renounced,   abjured,  defying1, 
They  doubly  feel  the  dread  of  dying  — 
Feel,  by  that  mystic  bond  of  heart, 
From  which  the  captives  ne'er  depart, 
That  when  deputed  to  their  lair, 
Her  heart  of  hearts  the  doom  must  share; 
So,  in  their  essence  theirs  live  on, 
A  portion  of  the  withering  one; 
While  they,  poor  lingering  things!  are  driven, 
With  scarcely  half  their  souls  to  heaven. 

Amid  the  whirl  of  hopeless  strife, 
Of  smoking  city,  reeking  life  — 
And  all  that  marks  the  waster's  wrath, 
Which  still  beset  his  every  path, 
Nord  Nial's  best  of  hope  and  prayer 
Were  given  to  vengeance,  hate,  despair  : 
Lost  was  each  tribute  stream  of  wo, 
In  his  deep  soirovv's  ocean  flow  ; 
Even  love  itself  was  crushed  beneath 
The  stroke  that  caused  his  freedom's  death. 


LORD  NIAL.  65 

Each  star  of  hope  had  left  its  sphere, 

And  ceased  to  burn  —  or  burned  in  gloom — 
For  not  one  ray  was  left  to  cheer, 
— Then  what  did  hearts  like  his  do  here? 
Must  they  but  weep  around  the  bier, 

That  should  have  shared  the  tomb  ?  — 
Ah  no  !  as  soon  the  day  live  on 
Shorn  of  the  beams  't  was  fed  upon.  — 
But  when  the  final  hour  was  cast, 
And  even  the  morrow  seemed  as  past, 
Began  his  soul  to  search  abroad, 
For  all  that  weaned  it  still  from  God  ; 
Then  stood  that  girl  sublime  —  alone  — 
His  best  —  his  beautiful  —  his  own  — 
Whate'er  his  fancies  imaged  forth, 
His  heaven  —  ay,  more  than  heaven,  on  earth. 
If  heaven  be  love,  then  was  his  love 

A  portion  of  the  realm  of  bliss, 
For  never  yet  was  soul  above, 

Warmed  by  a  flame  more  pure  than  his. 
Then  could  he  wish  that  true  soul  driven, 

To  bow  to  more  immortal  eyes  ? 
Rebellious  thought  — no  —  not,  by  heaven  ! 

To  the  queen  beauty's  of  the  skies. 
'T  was  this  wild  passion  —  not  his  will  — 
That  bound  his  spirit  earthward  still. 


66  LORD  IsIAL. 

But  0!  how  vain  such  homage  now  — 
Or  even  before  his  mountain  vow  — 
Should  his,  Lord  Nial's,  offspring  swell 

The  servile  crowds  of  after  times? 
—  As  soon  they  peopled  those  of  hell! 

For  more  illustrious  crimes. 
The  more  his  passions  bound  him  here, 

He  pined  for  freedom,  —  wooed  the  grave, 
Such  love  as  theirs  is  hard  to  steer, 
And  time  might  see  —  Oh  !  thought  of  fear  — 
Himself  the  sire  —  his  Mary  dear 

The  mother  —  of  a  slave  ! 
'T  was  wrong  tonight  to  risk  the  greeting, 
The  torture  of  a  farewell  meeting, 
Canst  thou,  Sir  Chief,  no  succor  bring? 
Thy  presence  only  nerves  the  sting. 
Ill  skilled  the  leech  that  rakes  the  heart, 
Before  he  probes  the  wounded  part. 
'T  is  less  the  feeling  than  the  fear 
Makes  all  our  ills  so  hard  to  bear. 
Life  is  so  brief  a  thing  at  most, 
One  instant's  calm  is  something  lost  — 
If  wo  must  come,  so  let  it  come  ! 
Why  hail  it  with  a  herald  drum  ? 
The  ruin  should  at  once  have  burst  — 
Better  to  feel,  than  fear  the  worst  — 


LORD  IslAL.  G7 

Unless  that  ruin  bared  to  view 
May  teach  us  to  avoid  it  too. 
Suspense  is  torture,  and  its  train 
Of  hopes  but  after  throbs  of  pain 
To  memory,  if  they  cheer  in  vain  — 
Even  as  those  traitor  gleams  of  light 
That  instant  glad  and  shun  the  sight, 
Add  seeming  darkness  to  the  night. 
There  is  a  solace  in  the  grief 
That  knows  not  —  looks  for  no  relief; 
For  deepest  wo  alone  can  share 
The  consolation  of  despair  — 
That  feeling  which  can  still  embalm 

The  venom  of  Fate's  deadliest  curse, 
For  when  she's  done  her  worst  to  damn, 

We  know  she  can  't  do  worse  ! 

Besides,  young  warrior,  art  thou  sure 
Thy  faith  is  fixed,  thine  heart  secure? 
That  nothing,  not  even  love,  can  force 
Thy  spirit  from  its  destined  course? 

This  even,  before  his  altar's  light, 
He  thought  so, —  thinks  he  so  tonight? 
Proves  fame  or  love  the  mightiest  now  ? 
Dull  querist !   what  a  dreamer  thou  — 


68  LORD  NIAL. 

The  human  passion  still  must  cower 

To  every  impulse  in  its  hour. 

The  brave  have  shunned  the  battle's  wrath,  — 

The  coward  braved  it  in  its  path  :  — 

Keep  thou  from  every  toil  aloof, 

Thou  hast  not  proved  thy  spirit's  proof, 

We  never  know  how  deep  the  abyss 

That  yawns  beneath  the  precipice, 

Until  we  have  trembled  on  its  brink  :  — 

— Lord  Nial  was  afraid  to  think  ; 

For  when  he  felt  that  seraph  form 

Hang  at  his  heart  so  wild  and  warm, 

Gazed  on  that  all  too  heavenly  brow, 

Rife  with  her  bosom's  conflict  now  — 

He  felt  —  forgive  him  Heaven  !  —  he  felt 

The  purpose  of  his  fixed  soul  melt, 

Forgive  him  Freedom  —  (thought  is  free, 

Nor  bows  to  weak  supremacy) 

He  almost  cursed  his  league  with  thee, 

And  half  unmanned,  he  thrice  essayed 

To   speak  —  but  thrice  the  deep  words  died 
Upon  his  tongue,  and  all  betrayed 

Emotions  which  he  strove  to  hide  ; 
Nor  did  the  voice  of  playfulness, 
Assumed  to  hide  his  soul's  distress, 
That  spoke  at  length,  dispel  the  wo 
Which  caused  that  Lady's  grief  to  flow: 


LORD  NIAL.  69 

And  yet  she  took  his  mood  the  while, 

And  robed  her  sadness  in  a  smile. 

"  Nay,  why,  my  girl,  so  dark  and  sad  ?" 

"  If  my  cheek  be  gloomy,  my  heart  is  glad." 

"  Then  wear  it,  sweet  love,  in  thy  smiles  tonight, 
And  make  jealous  the  moon  with  thy  beauty's  light.' 

"  If  so  would  Lord  Nial  or  share  its  ray? 
Or  ride  by  the  light  of  those  smiles  away  ? 
Nay,  look  not  thus;  for  't  is  ever  so  — 
So  seldom  you  come,  and  so  soon  you  go  ! 
How  oft  have  I  pined  for  you  all  day  long, 
And  lo !  when  you  came,  &  you  know  'twas  wrong, 
If  a  bugle  note  rang  on  yon  mountain's  height, 
Then  alas  for  your  love,  and  her  beauty's  light/' 

"But  then,  my  Mary,  when  I  went, 
'T  was  as  from  heaven  to  banishment ; 
And  had  I  scorned  that  call  divine, 
Say,  were  I  worthy  love  like  thine  ?" 

"  True  love  —  sweet  love,  would  cling  to  life.1' 
"What!  must  thy  lord  a  caitiff  be? 


70  LORD  NIAL. 

By  heavens  !    thou  wouldst  not  be  the  wife 
Of  any  save  the  free  !" 

"  Thou  knowst  me,  Nial  —  well,  't  is  past, 
And  thou  and  Heaven  are  here  at  last ; 
But  mark  the  purchase  —  though  the  blast 
This  night  should  split  their  horn  in  twain, 
If  blown  for  thee  —  that  blast  is  vain." 

Where  shall  that  Knight  find  refuge  now? 

JT  were  ruin  to  unbreast  his  vow — 

To  feed  her  hope  —  no,  misery  !  no, 

What  ruin  like  a  gilded  wo ! 

The  sequel,  when  the  veil  is  past, 

Comes  on  so  terrible  at  last  — 

If  ought  can  save  her  now  from  madness, 

'T  is  soul-subduing  song  or  sadness  ; 

For  mirth,  nor  pleasure's  wild  careers, 

Can  bring  such  balm  to  grief  as  tears  — 

Since  thou  hast  rushed  upon  thy  fate, 

Instruct  her  to  anticipate 

Thy  flight  tonight,   and  doom  tomorrow, 

Even  by  some  kindred  maiden's   sorrow, 

With  all  the  solace  that  you  may  ; 

But  do  not,  on  your  hopes,  betray. 

So  deemed  that  chief,  nor  deemed  in  vain, 


LORD  NIAL.  71 

Whate'er  has  been  the  issue  then  — 

And  seized  his  tiny  harp  again ; 

—  "  There  lived  a  knight,  that  loved, as  me  — 

His  fate  the  same ;  he  heard  the  blast  — 
The  maid  was  in  her  agony, 

Clinging  around  him  to  the  last. 
But  ere  he  fled  that  maid  divine, 
He  seized  his  lyre,  as  I  do  mine, 

And  sung myself,  upon  a  day, 

Composed  the  sequel  of  the  lay  : 

SONG. 

"  Cease,  my  lady  —  why,  Oh  !   why 

Suppress  the  flame  that  Freedom  lighted  ? 
Would  you  bid  your  lover  fly, 

To  see  his  name,  his  glory  blighted? 
True,  I  've  turned  me  from  the  strife, 

But  not  because  that  strife  disgraces  — 
3T  was  but  to  renew  my  life 

One  moment  in  my  love's  embraces. 

"  -Call  me  rebel !  true,  love,  true, 

My  hopes  are  wild,  my  cause  rejected  — 

But  when  I  'm  false  to  them  or  you, 
I  '11  forfeit  rank  with  heaven's  elected  ; 

See  our  country's  trophies  burn  — 
Fane  destroyed,  and  freedom  riven, 


7-2  LORD  N1AL. 

Maid  of  Erin  !  —  shall  I  spurn 

My  brightest  hopes  save  thee  and  heaven  ? 

"  Now  the  dogs  of  war  are  out  — 

Now  contending  swords  are  clashing  — 
Hark  !  the  sons  of  freedom  shout !  — 

Lo !  the  blades  of  freedom  flashing ;  — 
'  Tis  my  signal  —  Lady,  now 

What*  Love  commingled,  Fate  must  sever, 
This  —  and  this  —  upon  thy  brow, 

And  thus  we  part —  O  God  —  for  ever  ! 

"  Rushed  that  hero  to  the  field, 

Proudly  flamed  his  pennon  o'er  him, 
Fury  flashed  around  his  shield, 

And  slave  and  tyrant  crouched  before  him. 
But  O!   at  length  a  felon  brand 

Unloosed  the  soul  which  heaven  had  cherished, 
Sighing  '  Angels  guide  my  band  ! ' 

For  freedom  and  his  God  he  perished. 

•'  On  that  field  of  slaughter  yet, 

A  sculptured  tomb  records  his  story, 

Never  shall  his  fame  be  set, 

For  Freedom  gave  his  name  to  Glory, 

Nor  long  the  lady  mourned  his  fall, 
Her  name  with  his  that  trophy  graces, 


LORD  NIAL.  73 

And  there  till  death  is  bound  in  thrall 

They  slumber  locked  in  love's  embraces." 


'T  is  not  on  summer's  eve  serene, 

When  all  is  light  along  the  sky; 
'Tis  when  in  broken  glimpses  seen, 

Through  the  dark  vapours  hurrying  by, 
The  rainbow's  form  looks  loveliest, 
— So  woman's  eye  seems  doubly  blest 
When  charged  with  storm —  when  half  way  hid 
Beneath  the  bright  but  downcast  lid 
Through  which  the  half  stolen  glances  stream, 
Like  watery  sunbeams,  mist  and  flame ; 
When  tired  of  lingering,  hope  rebels, 

And  sorrow  pales  the  damask  cheek, 
And  the  torn  bosom  heaves  and  swells 

As  if  the  indignant  heart  would  break. 
While  breathed  that  chieftain's  song  of  wo, 
Gan  pulse  to  throb,  and  tear  to  flow 
Spreading  a  still  sublimer  glow 
Of  beauty  o'er  that  cheek  of  light, 

Which  erst  a  moment,  seemed  so  far 
Above  our  sunniest  dreams  of  bright, 

That  any  change  could  only  mar. 
H 


74  LORD  NIAL. 

But  when  he  spoke  of  buried  maid, 

Why  shrunk  that  lady  ?  —  had  the  dart 
Of  death  upon  her  breast  been  laid 
She  had  not  looked  more  wildly  then  — 
But  soon  her  brow  grew  calm  again. 

"  And  well  they  sleep  even  heart  to  heart, 
No  hope  to  wither  —  ill  to  brave  — 
What  balm  for  sorrow  like  the  grave? 
But  little  solace  this  to  hex, 
Who  may  not  share  the  sepulchre  ; 
Who  sees  her  lover's  record  stone, 
And  writhes  and  burns  and  still  lives  on ; 
On,  —  on,  through  countless  hours  for  ever, 


"  We  will,  my  girl  —  we  shall  —  we  will ! 

Love  laughs  at  bondage  —  swords  are  vain 
Come  on  !  their  bloodiest  shall  not  kill  — 

And  we  shall  meet  —  meet  oft,  again." 

"  Love !  where  ?" 

"  Where  love,  my  girl,  meets  best ; 
Where  chains  nor  bind,  nor  swords  molest ; 
Where  ravished  home,  and  hope  no  more 
Require  the  destined  soldier's  gore. 


LORD  JS'IAL.  75 

So,  lady,  be  thy  spirits  light. 

Even  though  we  part  —  ay,  part  tonight." 

"  Tonight ! — no  —  no  —  bid  dark  be  bright, 
Bid  earth  be  shattered  from  its  base, 
And  all  its  parts  resolved  in  space, 
But  name  no  solace  to  ensnare, 
Save  such  as  thou  wilt  stay  to  share. 
Nay,  turn  not  thus  thine  eyes  away, 
My  best  of  heaven  is  in  their  ray  ; 
Even  when  I  lost  their  lustre  now, 
My  soul  grew  dark,  —  then  how,  Oh  !  how, 
When  sounds  that  withering  blast  to  sever, 
Shall  I  resign  their  light  forever  ?" 
******  *         *         * 

"  What !   changeless  still  —  can  nothing  move 

Thine  heart  to  pity,  or  to  love  ? 

In  many  a  brighter  hour  gone  by, 

"T  was  thine  to  sue,  and  mine  to  fly; 

Or  have  I  lost  the  charms  that  won? 

Or  is  my  lord  a  changling  grown  ? 

— Forgive  me,  love,   I  meant  it  not ; 

The  word  came  forth  without  the  thought ; 

I  knew  thee  better  !  —  ha  !  —  no  —  no  ! 

'T  was  but  the  echo  of  my  wo; 

In  mercy,  start  not  —  look  not  so  !;> 


76  LORD  TsIAL. 

"Hark!  hark!  it  is  rny  warning  horn  — 
Hold  heart  —  hold  soul,  thine  own,  till  morn. 
O  Mary  !   for  my  soul's  dear  bliss, 

Be  merciful !  Be There!  away  ! 

Again  that  bugle's  fearful  bray! 
Thus,  then,  this  long,  last,  lingering  kiss  :  — 

Perdition  follows  if  I  stay  ! 
Within  thy  bowers  may  angels  dwell, 

May  all  that  's  blissful  be  thy  lot. 
Oh  !   Mary,  must  I  say  farewell  ? 

Forget  me  riot !  — forget  me  not !  !" 

######*          i 

Is  Nial  gone  ?  —  no  !  still  he  lingers  ; 
He  could  not  rudely  loose  the  ringer 
That  lady,  in  her  last  distress, 

Had  locked  around  her  warrior's  neck, 
With  such  spasmodic  eagerness, 

As  drowning  wretches  grasp  the  wreck  ; 
And  could  he  even  have  riven  him  through  ! 

His  will  was  all  too  feeble  now 
To  tear  him  from  those  lips  of  glue 

That  burned  upon  his  aching  brow. 

"  Stay,  stay,  but  one  brief  instant  stay  — 
One  other,  —  till  the  morrow's  sun 
Has  curled  the  mists  from  Mangerton  ; 


LORD  NIAL.  77 

The  moon  shines  out  as  bright  as  day, 

And  the  heavens  are  calm  and  the  earth  is  gay, 

And  the  zephyrs  are  kissing  the  flowers  in  play, 

And  shedding  their  sweets  upon  land  and  bay  — 

Look  out  upon  that  blissful  scene, 

The  moon-gilt  hill,  and  lake  serene, 

In  bright  and  shadowy  beauty  drest, 

Wooing  us  to  its  tranquil  breast ; 

Then  come  with  me — our  bark  so  light 

— Awaits  us, —  must  it  wait  in  vain  ? 

I  know  that  if  we  part  tonight, 

We  '11  never,  never  meet  again ; 
Thy  steed  is  tired,  thy  brow  is  warm, 
The  sky,  methinks,  is  charged  with  storm  — 
Stay  —  stay  —  Oh,  stay  but  one  short  hour ; 
I  've  decked  for  thee  my  costliest  bower, 
And  placed  therein  such  wondrous  things  ! 
Surpassing  Art's  imaginings. 

You  saw  the  scarf  your  Mary  wove  — 
No  —  no,  you  did  not  —  well,  my  love. 
'T  is  scarlet  of  the  sunniest  green  — 

Blue  —  blue  I  mean,  as  autumn  skies, 
With  fringe  of  gold,  and  flowers  between, 

Of  green,  and  pink,  and  purple  dyes,  — 
Mine  eyes  are  weak  —  look  on  those  eyes  ; 


'/S  LORD  NIAL. 

Are  they  not  weak  ? — as  well  they  may, 
And  Oh !  how  wretched  the  maid  who  plies 

The  lonely  hours  from  day  to  day, 
And  finds  at  length,  (like  a  certain  maid, 
That  once  hung  on  her  knight  in  a  moonlit  glade) 
Instead  of  the  thanks  and  the  smiles  she  prized, 
Her  labor  lost,  and  her  gifts  despised. 
But  hush  —  my  handmaid's  lyre  on  high! 
True,  true,  sweet  love,  tonight  we  try 
Our  minstrel  skill  —  thyself  to  be 
The  umpire  of  our  minstrelsy  — 
Wilt  thou  deny  me  this  poor  boon? 
— Then  go.  — 

I  knew  thou  couldst  not  go; 
The  sun  would  cease  to  light  his  moon, 

Ere  Nial  serve  his  Mary  so." 

O  well  she  knew  what  time  to  loose 
That  warrior  from  her  finger's  noose; 
O  well  she  knew  as  soon  might  fly 
The  wild  bird  from  the  basilisk's  eye  ; 
For  when  she  bounded  from  his  breast, 
And  left  him  to  his  own  behest, 
There,  like  a  thing  of  death,  he  stood, 
In  love's  most  frantic  attitude, 
If  not  all  conquered  —  all  subdued. 


LORD  N1AL. 

The  arrow's  flight  is  brief  and  dull, 
If  stiff  the  cord,  and  slight  the  pull : 
But  fleet  the  way,  and  far  the  flight, 
If  slack  the  string,  and  pulled  with  might ; 
The  strain  that  backs  it  from  its  prey, 
Forms  the  chief  impulse  of  its  way. 
Had  that  young  warrior  riven  the  snare 
That  bound  him  in  his  first  despair, 
Ere  now  the  hills  had  flung  their  shade 
Betwixt  him  and  the  frantic  maid 
That  now  gazed  on  in  silent  grief; 
For  as  the  javelin,  so  the  chief  — 
The  very  strain  that  kept  him  back 
Had  urged  him  to  a  speedier  track. 
But  now  his  soul  had  lost  its  spring: 
The  bow  was  straight,  and  dull  the  string, 
Without  one  tug  of  backward  might 
To  give  an  impulse  to  his  flight ; 
But  then  it  was  his  deepest  prayer 
To  be  —  no  matter  where  but  there  — 
Where  it  was  ruin  to  remain  — 

Where  there  were  bonds  in  every  tear  — 
Where  wavering  heart  and  whirling  brain 

Gave  note  of  weakness  —  madness  near  ; 
Yet,  now  his  passions  mocked  him  so, 


80  LORD  NIAL. 

He  grieved  that  he  was  free  to  go ; 
Yea,  prayed  again  with  equal  will 
For  some  excuse  to  linger  still. 

Oh  blame  him  not,  that  warrior,  then  — 

He  only  felt  as  other  men; 

And  they  are  worthless  of  the  name 

Who  had  not  thought  and  felt  the  same  ; 

Are  worthless  of  the  glory  given 

In  woman's  love,  man's  brightest  heaven  ! 

Whate'er  the  heartless  stoics  boast, 

The  great  of  mind  must  feel  the  most ; 

It  is  the  very  want  of  soul, 

That  helps  the  victim  to  control 

His  passions,  and  in  sooth  to  be 

All  calm,  where  all  is  misery  ; 

A  passionless,  a  breathing  clod  — 

Too  lowly  for  a  child  of  God. 

A  thing  of  instinct,  whom  the  glow 

Of  reason  warns  not  of  his  wo; 

The  workings  of  the  mind  within, 

Whether  for  righteousness  or  sin, 

Proves  more  its  deathless  origin; 

— They  lack  of  reason's  influence  less, 

Than  such  an  abject  passiveness. 


LORD  NIAL.  81 

But  still,  howe'er  his  sufferings  stung, 
His  soul  was  only  half  unstrung  ; 
The  chiefest  ties  that  held  him  there, 

Were  bodings  for  the  fate  of  her 
Abandoned,  lest  her  great  despair 
Should  seek  an  impious  sepulchre  ; 
And  by  that  fearful  act  create 
Dark  visions  of  her  soul's  estate. 

"O  THOU,  whose  arm  alone  is  power, 
Sustain  her  in  this  harrowing  hour; 
Prepare  her,  Heaven,  to  look  beyond 

The  changes  of  this  world  of  gloom  ; 
O  why  should  hearts  like  ours  despond, 

Or  sink  beneath  its  instant  doom  ? 
So  brief  the  tortures  that  destroy  — - 
So  vast  the  prospect  of  our  joy  — 
Yes,  yes  —  my  own,  my  only  love, 
There  7s  ONE  that  marks  us  from  above  ; 
And  he  '11  prepare  our  bo \vers  of  rest ; 
And  when  our  home  is  with  the  blest, 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  Fate's  control  — 

Among  the  holy  and  the  free  ; 
For  aye  commingling  soul  in  soul, 

In  love's  sublimest  ecstacy,  — 
How  bright  will  seem  our  realm  of  bliss, 


83  LORD  NIAL. 

As,  looking  back,  we  think  of  this. 
But  list,  dear  girl,  and  ponder  well, 
The  mind  must  bow  —  not  —  not  rebel ; 
Let  ruin  come  in  every  form  — 
Grief,  famine,  sickness,  battle,  storm  — 
It  recks  not  —  we  should  calmly  wait 
Heaven's  judgments  —  not  anticipate. 
The  foes  that  meet  in  deadliest  strife 
Attack  the  cause  —  but  not  the  life  ; 
'T  is  Doom  directs  the  battle-knife  — 

But  he  that  wars  on  his  own  breath, 
Acts  solely  from  his  own  decree, 
Unswayed  by  aught,  that  such  must  be, 
And  as  the  spirit  goes  abroad  — 
Unknown  to  —  unrequired  by  God, 

It  justly  suffers  death  ; 
Nor  shall  the  gift  rejected  then, 
For  ever  be  restored  again." 

"  Nor  ever  cared  for.     Blissful  calm, 

That  knows  no  sufferings,  —  needs  no  balm  ; 
I  would  not  ask  a  happier  lot, 
Than  to  be  doomed  and  feel  it  not." 

Now,  warrior,  nerve  thine  heart  to  bear 
The  test —  the  whirl,  of  love's  despair. 


LORD  NIAL.  83 

Not  thine  the  heart  to  brave  the  path 
Of  hopeless  woman  in  her  wrath  ; 
Not  thine  the  spirit  to  defy 
The  lovely  anguish  of  her  eye. 
Her  passions  will  be  chained  no  more  ; 

Her  laboring  chest  proclaims  it  now  — 
It  heaves,  it  sinks,  the  strife  is  o'er  — 

Good  Heavens  !   the  frenzy  of  that  brow  ! 
So  wild  its  mixed  expression  then  — 
Wrath,  terror,  wo,  despair,  and  pain  — 
Yet  beauty  reveled  through  the  storm, 
Each  pang  was  as  a  rival  charm. 
Rushing  along  from  cheek  to  breast, 
The  latest  aye  the  loveliest ; 
But  'mid  that  whirl  of  every  ill, 
Love  stood  sublimest  —  mightiest  still. 

Lord  Nial  grasped  his  courser's  mane  — 

— O  could  he  ride  the  lightning  then  ! 

His  lips  all  quivering,  —  cheeks  all  wan  — 

And  heart •  Is  Desmond's  Earl  a  man  ? 

Quick  —  quick  —  thy  purpose  melts  like  frost ; 
Another  look  and  all  is  lost! 

11  Now,  spirit  of  my  slaughtered  sire  ! 
Sustain  me  at  the  cast  —  away  — 
Thus,  then,  we " 


84  LORD  NIAL. 

"  As  you  hate  me,  stay 
One  instant  ;  then  away,  away  !" 
(That  voice  was  such  as  chilled  his  blood  — 

Stopped  his  heart's  motion,  and  he  stood  ) 

"Hear  but  the  curse  you  leave  behind, 
And  then  for  madness!  —  I'm  resigned  — 
But  breathe  it,  name  it,  not  again, 

That  harrowing  word,  my  fears  require 
No  second  medium  to  explain 
The  meaning  of  those  glances  dire, 
Each  flash  is  as  a  word  of  fire, 

Impressed  upon  mine  aching  brow; 
But  Oh  !  what  boots  it  to  complain  — 
Nor  time  nor  hope  can  stay  the  pain  — 
Pulse,  sinew,  heart,  and  breast  and  brain 

Must  ever,  ever  burn  as  now; 
But  I  have  known  it  —  long  have  known, 

Whate'er  rny  hope,  'twas  this  my  fear, 
That  I  was  in  the  world  alone  — 
That  Nial's  heart  was  colder  grown  — 
That  life  nor  love  could  more  atone, 

To  keep  it  lingering  here. 
Go  —  go  —  deceiver,  as  thou  art, 
The  veil  's  removed  —  I  see  thy  heart 
Is  pining  —  struggling  to  depart, 

That  mine  's  no  longer  dear ; 


LORD  NIAL.  85 

Now  nothing  but  a  blasted  token 

Of  what  it  was —  wilt  hear  it  spoken  ? 

Deceived  — degraded —  would  't  were  broken  !" 

,9tW*  dfiJ  •;    oi  wilf  bttB  -.%tt\lw&  S«ori7f 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Mary !  speak  not  so, 
Or  I  am  ruined!" 

"  No,  love,  no  ! 
It  falls  alone  —  alone  on  me, 
This  undecaying  misery  ! 
My  only  joy,  it  harms  not  thee. 

0  Nial,  what  hast  thou  to  fear  ? 

1  —  I  alone  must  live  —  must  bear, 
Yea,  fondly  —  madly — nurse  the  fever, 
That  undecayed  shall  burn  for  ever." 

"  You  speak  a  riddle." 

"  So,  to  thee, 

My  secret  must  for  ever  be. 
The  torments  of  your  fancied  hell 
Are  mine  —  ay,  doubly  —  if  I  tell. 
Things  charged  with  extra  being  know, 
An  extra  zest  in  wail  or  wo; 
Such  pangs  as  rack  the  struggling  eel, 


86  LORD  NIAL, 

Not  even  the  lion  flayed  can  feel ; 
Then  Oh  !  how  full  the  curse,  and  rife, 
To  one  whose  every  part  is  life, 
Whose  feelings  and  whose  love  the  same, 
Is  all  a  spirit  -*—  all  a  flame ; 
Yet  punishment,  nor  crime  alone, 
Forbids  to  make  that  mystery  known  ; 
Each  different  change  of  hell's  excess, 
Would  tend  to  make  my  miseries  less. 
The  suffering  limb  would  take  its  part 
Of  suffering,  from  the  tortured  heart ; 
And  every  sinew  serve  to  bear 
Some  portion  of  my  soul's  despair  ; 
But  he  who  gives  that  tale  an  ear 
Must  perish  when  he  '11  cease  to  hear. 
But  hadst  thou  loved  as  I  have  loved, 
Ere  this  the  barrier  were  removed ; 
So  true  a  passion  must  have  seen 
Some  way  to  pierce  the  mystic  screen  ; 
A  thousand  times  I  've  signed  the  way 
To  where  our  home  of  glory  lay, 
By  word  or  gesture  —  all  in  vain  ; 
You  saw  not,  or  you  mocked  my  pain, 
Or  feared  the  plunge  —  there,  there  again  ! 
One  other  word  as  boldly  said, 


LORD  NIAL.  87 

And  I  were  ruined,  thou  wert  dead ; 
So,  come  what  may,  despair  or  bliss, 
Love  cannot  prompt  to  more  than  this." 

Distracted  —  lost,  that  warrior  gazed, 
Or  was  she  what  she  said,  or  crazed? 
The  seraph  lightness  of  her  form, 
The  awful  beauties  which  that  storm 
Of  passion,  hurried  o'er  her  brow, 
Then  shadowy,  like  the  pale  moon  now; 
And  the  wild  glory  of  her  eye, 
Seemed  all  like  things  that  never  die. 
But  if  immortal,  did  she  dwell 
Among  the  ranks  that  erred  and  fell? 
Ah  !  no ;  her  every  glance,  that  even, 
Bespoke  her  of  the  purest  heaven  ; 
And  every  impious  word  laid  bare, 
At  worst  a  seraph  in  dispair. 
Whate'er  she  was,  that  form  of  bloom, 
The  child  of  glory,  or  of  doom, 
Or  nothing  but  a  frantic  maid, 
Betrayed  —  (nay,  ruined  —  not  betrayed,) 
He  knew  not,  nor  he  cared  to  know ; 
She  was  his  own  —  his  all  below, 
And  if  in  heaven  denied  her  love, 


88  LORD  NIAL. 

Dark  hope  had  Nial  from  above ; 

But  if  —  no  matter  where  't  was  shared,, 

His  soul  was  for  the  worst  prepared. 

Even  such  is  love,  in  every  form, 

The  very  nursling  of  the  storm, 

That  pines  away  in  hour  of  bloom, 

But  revels  in  Misfortune's  womb, 

Still  shunning  the  contented  breast ; 

O  what  has  Love  to  do  with  rest  ? 

Still  clinging  to  the  heart  of  wo, 

The  only  good  that  fails  to  go. 

Who  never  weep,  can  never  know 

The  mystic  monarch,  in  his  glow 

Of  pride  and  strength  —  on  pleasure  he 

Shall  surfeit  to  satiety, 

While  chain  and  torture  —  battle  —  blight, 

Are  whetstones  to  his  appetite ; 

But  't  is  when  every  hope  is  freed, 

He  triumphs  in  his  pride  indeed. 

When  Nial  thought  that  Heaven  was  kind* 

He  could  have  left  that  girl  behind  ; 

But  when  his  soul  grew  sad  with  fear, 

Even  when  he  deemed  perdition  near,. 

What  could  he  do  but  stay  to  cheer  I 


LORD  NIAL.  89 

"  Brief  time  ago,  and  then  I  deemed 

Thou  wert  all  blessed  as  thou  seemed  — 

And  then  I  loved  thee  all  too  well 

For  words  to  fathom  — tongue  to  tell ; 

But  still,  the  hope  that  guides  the  free, 

Divided  half  my  soul  with  thee. 

But  now,  that  something  in  thy  fate 

A.wakens  thoughts  more  desolate, 

That  love  is  deeper,  wilder  grown, 

Condensed,  concentred,  burning,  lone  — 

Heart,  soul,  hope,  passions  —  all  thine  own  — 

If  I  can  bear  the  miseries  now, 

Of  cause  betrayed,  and  broken  vow, 

All  future  ills  may  do  their  worst, 

They  cannot  make  me  more  accurst  — 

And  yet  with  thee,  whate'er  thou  art, 

Thou  first,  best  idol  of  my  heart, 

Where  e'er  thy  home  —  whate'er  the  test, 

Still  love  me,  and  I  must  be  blest  ; 

I  deem  thee  hopeless :  if  3t  is  true, 

Whale'er  the  terrors  that  ensue, 

Thou  shall  not  be  forsaken  too." 

And  now  upon  that  lone  shore  kneeling, 
With  outsretched  hands,  to  Heaven  appealing-, 


90  LORD  NIAL, 

He  swore  — 

"  By  yon  bright  orb,  that  flings 
Her  glory  round  us  !  —  by  the  wreath 
Worn  on  the  helm  of  Tara's  kings  ! 

By  every  loss  in  life  or  death, 
We  part !" 

No-  more  he  would  have  said, 
But  ere  the  word  could  leave  his  lips, 

A  vapor  of  the  stormiest  red 
Came  o'er  the  moon  like  an  eclipse, 
While  instantly  a  wailing  blast 

Rushed  through  the  heavens,  and  instant  passed. 

##*****# 

Oh!  what  is  man,  in  all  his  pride? 

The  pennon  fluttering  in  the  gale, 
That  whirls  around  from  side  to  side, 
Though  riding  o'er  a  tranquil  tide, 

Is  scarce  so  light  or  frail ;       ' 
And  what  the  word  of  his  despair  ? 

How  shall  the  minstrel  sing? 
A  bubble,  loosened  on  the  air, 
That  floating  through  the  calmest  ray, 
Strikes  on  a  beam  and  melts  away, 

Is  just  as  staunch  a  thing, 
He  loves  —  Oh,  with  what  truth  he  loves  1 


LORD  NIAL.  91 

Kneels  —  worships  —  in  her  view ; 
But  lo  !  another  impulse  moves, 
And  then,  dear  girl,  adieu." 

Had  but  one  briefest  instant  flown, 

Ere  howled  that  envious  storm-fiend  by; 
Then,  Mary,  he  was  all  thine  own, 

— JT  were  perjury  to  fly.    '*  J( 
But  something  in  that  sound  of  pain 
Uproused  his  slumbering  soul  again, 
And  hate  once  more,  with  instant  spring, 
Soared  on  his  hope's  most  wayward  wing  ; 
He  shrinks  aghast  —  the  struggle  's  past  — 
Even  Love  to  Vengeance  bows  at  last. 

11  What  voice  was  that  —  list,  Mary,  list ! 

It  called  Lord  Nial  —  O  I  see 
My  father's  form  in  yonder  mist ; 

And  he  is  beckoning  me  ! 
Father  !   I  come  —  my  Mary  dear, 

Fate —  Heaven,  ordains  that  we  should  part; 
And  I  must  leave  thee,  loved  one,  here, 

All  madly  worshipped  as  thou  art ; 
But  if  there  's  mercy  in  the  sky, 
And  memory  left  with  those  that  die, 


92  LORD  NIAL. 

Where  e'er  thy  spirit's  home  may  be, 
I  '11  come  to  thee,  —  I  '11  come  to  thee !" 

:,i<4  ibr>;-    •   ,  •  ImJk 

Away !  and  springing  from  the  ground, 
He  backed  his  steed  with  one  bold  bound  — 
Away  !  and  fleet  as  falcon's  spring, 
When  impelled  by  wind  and  wing, 

He  darted  from  his  Mary's  view ; 
And  as  along  the  shore  he  fled, 
He  tore  the  helmet  from  his  head, 

And  waved,  perchance,  his  last  adieu ; 
For  distance,  and  the  shades  of  night 
Obscured  him  soon  from  Mary's  sight. 
But  still  she  gazed  along  the  shore, 
And  fancied  what  she  saw  before  — 
Gazed  with  that  senseless,  stony  stare, 
That  more  than  speech  betrays  despair. 
She  did  not  weep  —  no  tear,  't  is  true, 
Bedimmed  those  eyes  of  heavenliest  blue, 
But  that  deep,  silent,  heartfelt  wo 
Which  dries  the  source  whence  tear-drops  flow, 
Was  hers  —  that  wo  which  breaks  the  heart, 
And  will  not  without  being  part. 
Now  on  her  bosom  drooped  her  head 
Exhausted,  and  she  sunk  —  as  dead. 

END    OF    CANTO    SECOND. 


1)3 


Canto 


THE  midnight  moon  shone  cold  and  bright, 

Along  that  rugged  glen  ; 
Revealing  by  her  silver  light, 
In  many  an  anxious  group  that  night, 

Five  hundred  warrior  men. 
They  did  not  wake  the  beacon's  ray  — 

No  watch-fire  strewed  the  ground ; 
For  many  a  thousand  foemen  lay 

On  every  side  around. 
You  could  not  look  and  fail  to  learn 
They  were  not  of  the  lowly  kerne, 
For  theirs  that  lordliness  of  tread 
Which  ill  would  suit  the  lowly  shed  ; 
That  half  repulsiveness  of  eye, 
Which  tells  of  pride  for  lineage  high ; 


96  LORD  NIAL, 

And  that  cold  dignity  of  wo, 

The  peasant  bred  but  seldom  show, 

In  sooth  there  's  not  a  warrior  there, 

But  seems  a  chieftain  by  his  air ; 

As  one  who,  with  his  single  sword, 

Might  keep  the  pass  against  a  horde. 

Nor  tells  their  seeming  more  than  sooth  ; 

For  as  they  looked,  they  were  in  truth, 

All  high-born  men,  left  desolate, 

Doomed,  ruined  —  but  deriding  fate ; 

Whose  stubborn  souls  the  tempest  braved, 

While  others  bent,  and  so  were  saved  ; 

Whose  kindred  sorrows —  kindred  pride, 

Have  forced  them  here  from  every  side, 

One  only  beacon  for  their  guide  ; 

A  full  redemption  from  their  doom, 

Or  by  the  sword,  or  by  the  tomb. 

No  terms  they  sought  —  they  deemed,  and  well, 

The  wretch  that  pines  in  dungeon  cell, 

Less  abject  in  his  slavery, 

Than  he  that  lives  by  sufferance  free. 

"  What !  bow  to  numbers  —  bow  to  gold ! 

Here,  standing  on  our  parent  mould  — 

While  every  step  we  plant  on  earth 

Gives  some  new  hope,  new  vigor  birth  1 


LORD  NIAL. 

No  !  if  we  ever  stoop  to  crime, 
It  must  be  in  a  stranger  clime ! 
Come  on,  or  death,  or  dungeon  hold, 
The  cause  is  better  lost,  than  sold. 
Mavourneen  Erin  !   sunk,  and  riven  — 
To  us  thou  still  art  all  a  heaven ; 
And  if  we  may  not  see  thee  blest, 
We  '11  sink  into  thine  arms  for  rest, 
Nor  bring  pollution  to  thy  breast. 
Who  sees  thee  fall,  nor  strives  to  save, 
Is  worthless  of  so  green  a  grave ; 
O  never  may  his  servile  clod 
Be  mingled  with  its  parent  sod  — 
Be  raised  from  death  to  meet  its  God. 

Such  on  a  day  were  Irishmen : 
But  let  us  pause  and  look  again  — 
Gramercy  !  for  the  march  of  crime  ! 
Such  are  they  not  in  after  time. 

A  distant  hoof — the  rider  well 

Must  know  the  secrets  of  the  dell, 

Else  through  the  gap  of  wild  Dunloe, 

He  had  not  urged  his  courser  so : 

"  Stand  by  the  guard  !  your  weapons  bare 


98                            LORD  NIAL. 
He  breasts  the  outpost " 

14  Who  comes  there  ?" 
No  stranger's  voice  —  "  A  friend"  replies. 
"  The  watchword  ?" 

11  Vengeance !" 

On  he  hies  — 
He  mounts  the  rock —  he  winds  the  clue  — 

Dashes  the  barrier-torrent  through 

Lord  Nial  stands  before  their  view. 

"  Our  noble  chief!  we  feared  thy  stay  — 
The  foeman  lurks  along  the  way." 

"  I  know  it  —  thrice  they  crossed  my  flight, 
But  thrice  they  rued  my  charger's  might ; 
I  scarce  required  my  sabre's  aid, 
And  yet  there  's  blood  upon  the  blade." 

Another  hoof —  "  A  friend"  —  "What  —  ho ! 
"  Fingal,  with  tidings  from  the  foe." 


LORD  NIAL.  99 

41  Among  the  rocks  on  Glenna's  brow 
The  hireling  herd  are  sheltered  now ; 
From  every  gap  a  bristling  spear 
Rose  through  the  moonlight,  tall  and  clear." 

"'T  is  well  —  and  yet 't  were  better  still 
Descend  the  vale,  than  mount  the  hill ; 
Better  to  rush  with  headlong  sweep, 
Than  labor  up  the  rugged  steep  ; 
But  what  are  obstacles  ?  The  base 
May  trace  them,  as  they  strive  to  trace ; 
But  come  they,  or  in  gloom,  or  wrath, 
They  never  block  the  soldier's  path  ; 
Nay  !   at  the  issue  only  serve 
To  give  him  pride,  and  give  him  nerve  ; 
Nor  mountain  height,  nor  pathless  way, 
Shall  keep  our  great  revenge  at  bay. 
Prepare  the  feast  —  we  '11  bide  the  night  — 
Our  vengeance  is  a  deed  of  light; 
How  buoyant  springs  the  warrior's  tread, 
From  the  gilt  heather,  bright  and  red ; 
And  when  the  gallant  soul  is  sped, 
Where  better  rests  the  warrior's  head  ? 
Prone  on  the  soil  he  died  to  save, 
A  golden  halo  round  his  grave." 


100  LORD  NIAL. 

*          *          *          *          *          *          * 

How  beautiful  in  death- she  lay 

Beside  that  blue  lake  stilt  j 
Her  cheek  more  pale  than  winter's  ray 

Upon  a  snow-clad  hill  — 
And  all  so  free  from  every  stain 

That  marked  her  living  woes, 
I  would  not  have  her  wake  again 

From  such  a  bright  repose  — 
But  hush  !   was  that  a  zepbyr's  breath 

Which  stirred,  those  lips  of  bliss? 
And  has  that  maiden  blushed  in  death 

Instinctive  at  the  kiss  ? 
Ah  !  no,  that  sigh  came  from  her  soul, 

That  blush  came  from  her  breast, 
The  hand  of  death  has  brief  control 

On  any  thing  so  blest. 

"  So  wild  a  dream  !"  she,  waking,  said, 
"A  warrior  captured  by  a  maid ; 

Yet,  whence  this  sudden  ray 
Of  rapture,  kindling  round  my  heart? 
Lead  on,  lead  on,  whoe'er  thou  art 
That  urges  to  this  bold  design, 
And  I  will  bow  before  thy  shrine^   :>JU-^ 


LORD  NIAL.  101 

Kneel  —  honor,  —  all  I  may. 
A  deep  revenge  for  wrongs  endured  — 
Love  —  all  by  woman's  wit  secured, 

Away"  —  and  on  she  passed ; 
The  fallow  in  her  flight  of  dread, 
When  first  she  leaves  her  mountain  shed, 
The  grim  dog  near,  the  plain  a-head, 

Had  scarcely  flown  so  fast. 
She  won  her  bower,  she  crossed  the  gate, 

Some  minutes  passed,  and  then 
Two  horsemen  issued  forth  in  state, 

And  swept  along  the  glen. 

******** 

Encamped  on  Glenna's  heights  they  lay, 

Ten  thousand  men,  or  more  — 
But  O  !  a  servile  swarm  were  they, 
Who  served  for  fear,  or  served  for  pay, 
Such  men  as  lick  their  despot's  rods, 
Unfinished  creatures,  breathing  clods  — 
Who,  when  a  few  short  years  are  past, 
Shall  sink  into  their  lairs  at  last, 

Nor  leave  a  soul  to  soar. 
There  skulked  the  lowly,  lynx-eyed  Dane, 

I  knew  him  by  his  mood  — 
His  heart  was  brooding  o'er  the  gain 
K* 


102  LORD  NIAL, 

For  which  he  sold  its  blood ; 
And  there  the  baser  Norman  churl, 

That  counts  nor  gain  or  loss  — 
But  who,  if  it  would  please  his  Earlt 

Had  danced  upon  the  cross  ; 
And  many  an  Englishman  was  there, 
With  ruddy  cheek  and  station  fair, 

And  brow  of  manly  pride. 
Ah  !   why  will  freemen  aid  the  slave 
To  hunt  the  wretched,  crush  the  brave?1 
It  should  be  theirs  the  weak  to  save, 

Nor  join  the  stronger  side. 
But  Oh!  of  all  the  bloodiest  band 

That  swelled  those  servile  hordes, 
Were  men  —  even  children  of  the  land;. 

That  bled  beneath  their  swords. 
I  curse  the  vagrant  Danish  clan  — 

The  lowly  Norman  too  — 
I  curse  the  recreant  Englishman   •  .   : 

That  leagued  with  -such  a  crew. 
But  curses  doubly  —  doubly  deep, 

For  ever  be  the  dower 
Of  all  who  on  that  mountain  steep 
Were  of  the  land  they  left  to 

That  weeps  this  very  hour,— 


LORD  iNIAL.  103 

Oh,  mercy  !  be  thy  influence  lost, 

If  e'er  thou  breath'st  their  names; 
For  ever  be  their  spirits  tost 

Through  whirlwinds  and  through  flames  ; 
Forever  branded,  lashed,  and  driven, 

Without  one  hope  in  view ; 
— I  would  not  crave  the  bliss  of  heaven, 

If  traitors  share  it  too. 

Within  his  tent,  retired  and  lone, 
The  leader  sat,  of  all  those  hordes  ; 

Nor  were  the  deeds  to  fame  unknown, 
Of  bold  Mac  Art,  of  swords. 

But  since  a  traitor  he  became, 

Lord  Lodar  was  his  rank  and  name. 

His  foes  pronounced  that  gold  allured  — 

His  friends,  that  't  was  for  wrongs  endured ; 

Thus  for  the  sake  of  pique  or  pelf, 

He  doomed  his  country  —  damned  himself. 

"  Whose  step  is  that  ?"  The  lamp  burned  low, 

He  saw  not,  but  he  felt,  the  foe ; 

For  ere  his  hand  could  grasp  his  blade, 

Lord  Lodar  in  the  dust  was  laid. 

Two  warriors  bear  him  from  the  floor  — 


104  LORD  NIAL. 

Those  warriors  I  have  seen  before ; 

Their  statures  low,  and  figures  slight, 

Seem  little  formed  for  deeds  of  might ; 

They  bind  that  chieftain  to  a  steed, 

They  mount,  —  away  —  and  forth  they  speed. 

But  scarce  a  briefest  hour  was  flown, 

When  one  returned,  and  one  alone, 

Is  it  Lord  Lodar  ?  —  need  I  ask? 

He  wears  the  chieftain's  plume  and  casque, 

Speaks  in  his  voice,  so  rough  and  stern  — 

Reclines  him  in  his  couch  of  fern  — 

'T  is  haply,  then,  the  doubtful  glare 

His  fitful  lamp  flings  round  them  there, 

That  makes  him  seem  so  slight  and  low, 

To  what  he  seemed  an  hour  ago. 

He  calls  aloud,  his  slaves  appear. 
"  Command  the  readiest  bugle  here  — 
But  first  remove  or  shade  the  light ; 
Though  feeble,  it  affects  my  sight." 
The  bugler  entered  at  his  will  — 
"  Blow  the  assembly,  loud  and  shrill." 
Old  Glenna  and  the  mountains  round 
Awoke  in  thunder  at  the  sound, 
And  all  was  bustle ;  mound  and  glen 


LORD  N1AL. 

Poured  forth  their  swarms  of  eager  men, 
Each  seeking  for  his  several  troop 
By  war-cry  loud,  or  signal  whoop ; 
'T  is  strange,  how  every  soldier  tells 
His  own,  amid  that  whirl  of  yells  — 
But  such  his  ear  by  custom  grown, 
No  sound  excites  him  but  his  own. 
And  there  was  many  a  mumbled  prayer 
Of  warrior,  loath  to  quit  his  lair, 
And  many  a  M  Would  that  bugler's  note 
Had  choked  him  ere  it  left  his  throat ;" 
And  there  was  many  a  hammer  clang  ; 
And  coursers  pawed,  and  corslets  rang, 
And  falchion  belt,  and  haversack 
Were  buckled  upon  hip  and  back, 
And  thus,  secured  for  peace  or  fight, 
On,  on  they  hurried,  left  and  right. 
But  soon  that  tumult  wild  was  past  — 
Each  soldier  found  his  post  at  last ; 
And  now,  of  all  that  vast  array, 
There  's  not  a  single  spear  astray. 
******* 

Their  feast  was  on  the  heather  spread, 

A  warrior's  homely  cheer  ; 
Potato,  cresset,  salt,  and  bread, 


106  LORD  NIAL. 

And  haunch  of  dun  red  deer; 
And  many  a  deep  and  flowing  bowl 

Of  Erin's  nectar  pure, 
To  warm  the  wit,  and  cheer  the  soul, 

And  help  it  to  endure; 
For  those  who  at  that  rude  repast 

Now  quaffed  the  generous  tide, 
Cared  little  for  the  midnight  blast 

That  swept  the  bleak  hill's  side. 
But  deem  ye  not  at  such  a  time, 
They  made  its  balm  the  source  of  crime. 
Alone  the  slave  who  fears  to  bear, 
Will  fly  to  stupor,  from  despair ; 
Then  let  the  lowly  blame  in  vain 
The  weepings  of  the  golden  grain  ; 
For  one,  will  I  renounce  it  not, 
Because  it  makes  the  fool  a  sot ; 
For  while  it  binds  the  judgment  down, 

How  slight  the  blame,  at  worst ; 
The  gentlest  wave  will  drench  or  drown, 

As  well  as  slake  the  thirst ; 
The  brightest  gifts  that  Heaven  supplies, 
The  very  beacon  of  the  skies, 
Abused,  becomes  the  means  of  vice, 


LORD  NIAL.  107 

Alone  Lord  Nial  seems  in  sorrow  — 

What!  fears  he  then  the  coming  morrow 

Is  his  the  only  cheek  to  pale  ?  — 

The  only  heart  to  bend  and  quail  ? 

His  warriors  seem  more  free  from  blight 

Than  they  have  been  for  many  a  night : 

No  quagmire  ray  to  cheat  the  mind, 

3T  is  now  all  ruined  —  and  resigned! 

The  latest  hope  has  ceased  to  soar, 

And  so  despair  can  vex  no  more ; 

For  while  a  shade  remains  throughout, 

It  leaves  the  misery  of  a  doubt. 

The  wretch  that  braves  the  desert  sea 

Will  perish  more  contentedly 

Than  he  that  sinks  beneath  the  wave, 

Just  as  the  shallop  nears  to  save. 
In  vain  he  strives  his  soul  to  cheat, 
He  .smiles  — that  smile  is  all  deceit ; 
He  may  not  mingle  in  the  glow 
Of  rapture,  which  his  comrades  know. 
That  reckless,  changeless,  blissful  state 
Of  hopelessness,  which  laughs  at  fate ; 
For  them  the  world  was  all  a  tomb  — 
For  him,  one  ray  still  cheered  its  gloom. 
One  rebel  ray  which  mocked  at  will, 


108  LORD  NIAL. 

And  kept  his  grief  from  torpor  still. 

Such  hope  as  leads  the  struggling  tar, 

On  ruffian  billows  borne  afar, 

To  seek  the  summit  of  the  mast, 

And  hug  his  miseries  to  the  last ; 

'T  was  strange  whence  that  lorn  hope  had  birth — 

'T  was  not  of  fame,  or  heaven,  or  rest, 
For  aye  it  wooed  him  back  to  earth, 

Against  his  soul's  behest. 
'T  was  as  the  voice  of  things  unborn, 

That  mystic  sound  we  sometimes  hear, 
When  that  which  is  not,  sends  to  warn 

Our  senses  of  its  coming  near. 

More  tidings  from  the  foe—  again, 

A  horseman  thundering  through  the  glen. 

Each  goblet,  sparkling  in  the  air, 

Seems  for  an  instant  spell-bound  there  ; 

And  every  eye  is  anxious  bent 

Towards  the  valley's  crater  vent ; 

Now  glance  the  moon-beams  from  his  spear, 

Now  plume,  and  crest,  and  helm  appear, 

Now  shouts  the  outmost  sentinel, 

"  A  friend,"  again,  "  pass  friend,  all's  well ;" 

Another  sweep  of  breathless  speed,      ;  , 


LORD  NIAL.  109 

The  warrior  reins  his  panting  steed  ; 
But  all  too  late,  my  noble  roan, 
Unless  to  hear  thy  dying  moan  ; 
"  Why  flagged  thee  not  upon  the  road? 
Thou  wert  not  urged  by  whip  or  goad ; 
But  solely  of  thine  own  accord 
Hast  broke  thy  heart  to  serve  thy  lord  ; 
But  scarcely  do  I  deem  it  vain, 
The  hope  that  we  may  meet  again ; 
For  many  a  dame  I  've  known,  with  less 
Of  soul  than  thee,  my  gallant  Bess  : 
Light  be  thy  sleep  among  the  shade 

Of  granite  cliff,  and  mountain  heather  ; 
Since  fate  forbids,  my  bonny  maid, 

That  we  should  bleed  and  rest  together." 

A  stern  old  son  of  strife  was  he, 
Whose  sword  had  many  a  soul  set  free  ; 
Whose  eye  had  marked  the  friend  he  loved, 
Prone  on  the  dust,  and  marked  unmoved  ; 
Yet  now  he  shed  a  tribute  tear 
Above  his  stiffening  courser's  bier  ; 

He  never  lost  a  friend  so  dear. 
But  soon  the  soldier's  grief  is  sped  — 
He  turns  him  from  the  mighty  dead, 

L 


110  LORD  NIAL. 

"  The  brave  O'Neil  —  but  whence  this  speed?" 

"The  lightnings  scarce  had  served  my  need  ! 

Heaven  smiles  at  length  —  the  foe  has  left 

Its  loop-hole  in  the  eagle's  cleft. 

I  tracked  it  downward,  downward  still, 

Till  scarce  a  straggler  pressed  the  hill, 

Bid  Hate  rejoice,  and  Hope  awake, 

No  warrior  he,  who  hears  with  sorrow, 
That  now  along  the  central  lake 

The  hireling  herd  await  the  morrow, 
My  faithful  Bess  lies  breathless  there, 
To  be  the  first  the  news  to  bear." 


Then  rose  to  heaven  the  deafening  shoutr 
Applauding,  heart-sent,  deep  throughout ; 
'T  was  the  ungarnished  evidence 

Of  soul  5  and  speech  can  ne'er  convey 
Its  meaning  with  such  eloquence, 

As  that  unbroken,  wild  huzza. 

"  Fill  up  your  grace  cups  to  the  brink, 
And  now  to  Freedom's  God  \ve  drink  ! 
To  him  who  g-uides  our  swords  at  last 
To  such  a  long  desired  repast •" 


LORD  NJAL.  Ill 

Fire  hunderd  tongues  renew  the  cry, 

"  To  Freedom's  God  and  vengeance  nigh  !" 

\ 

"  Now  part  we  for  an  hour  of  rest, 

The  sleepless  arm  aye  strikes  the  best ; 
But  let  the  lark's  first  sonnet  be 
The  summons  of  our  gathering  tree  ; 
And  let  us  don  our  best  array  — 
Scarf,  belt,  and  star,  and  plume  so  gay, 
And  rush  into  themorrow's  fray 
As  if  it  were  our  bridal  day  !" 


EXD    OF    CAXTU    THIRD. 


eanto  jFotmij. 


115 


Canto  JfmirtJ). 


THY  banks,  sweet  Mucross !  well  become 

The  onset  of  the  bright  and  brave, 
And  well  the  warrior's  crest  and  plume 

Are  mirrored  in  thy  wave  ; 
And  thou  art  meet  for  love,  as  war, 
For  woman's  sigh,  as  sabre  scar. 
Speak  as  we  may  of  peaceful  life, 

Of  human  weal,  and  human  will  — 
Most  deeply  dwell  the  seeds  of  strife 

Within  the  noblest  bosoms  still  ; 
And  never  breathed  the  lady  bright, 

Howe'er  her  looks  the  charge  belie, 
Who  would  not  wish  her  love  a  knight, 

And  glory  in  his  battle  cry. 
How  bounds  the  maiden's  heart  to  see 


116  LORD  NIAL. 

Her  bright  locks  crown  his  glancing  crest, 
And  ere  he  mounts  his  charger  free, 

To  languish  on  her  warrior's  breast. 
Love  may  be  found  in  peaceful  bowers, 
Where  all  is  sunshine,  smiles,  and  flowers  — 
May  loll  at  ease  the  livelong  day, 
Where  rose-beds  bloom  and  streamlets  stray, 
In  one  bright  round  of  changeless  bliss; 
Bat  soon  he  tires  of  scenes  like  this, 
And  sighs  for  action  —  that  pure  sense, 
The  more  opposed,  the  more  intense 
Becomes  its  being  — -  strife,  commotion, 
But  serve  to  deepen  its  devotion. 
The  bard  may  win  a  tribute  tear  — 

The  wealthy  fool  at  times  will  move  — 
But  he  alone  that  wields  the  spear, 

Can  teach  a  maiden's  heart  to  love. 
But  think  ye  not  I  thus  resign 
Of  all  heaven's  gifts  the  most  divine, 
The  light  of  woman  !  —  no,  by  Jove ! — 

If  song  the  ties  of  love  could  sever, 
I  'd  leave  my  laurel,  harp,  and  grove, 

And  fight  for  woman's  smile  for  ever. 

'T  is  less  than  morn,  yet  more  than  night, 


LORD  NIAL.  117 

The  sky,  before  so  darkly  bright, 

Assumes  a  sicklier  aspect,  and 

Wanes  lighter,  but  less  brightly  grand, 

Than  when  along  the  deep  dark  blue, 

The  isles  of  heaven  came  streaming  through. 

Still  o'er  the  lake  the  moonbeams  dance, 

But  night  no  more  their  charms  enhance 

By  contrast  —  paler  wears  the  hour, 

But  Cynthia  yet  asserts  her  power  ; 

And  still  essays  her  rays  to  fling 

Rebellious  to  her  sovereign  king. 

But  Oh !  how  vain  the  contest !   soon 

The  powerless  and  ill-fated  moon, 

With  many  a  fair  retainer  nigh, 

Hangs  undistinguished  in  the  sky. 

The  sun  is  up  —  the  lord  of  morn ! 

And  comes  the  sense  from  whence  it  may, 
I  never  gazed  upon  his  horn 

But  something  seemed  to  bid  me  pray  ; 
Oh !  how  unlike  the  gloomy  earth, 
From  which  the  sordid  heart  has  birth  — 

— The  nobler  spirit  springs  in  scorn  — 
The  frame  still  pines  to  rest  and  lie, 
The  soul  to  soar  beyond  the  sky, 


118  LORD  NIAL. 

Each  true  to  nature,  bright,  or  base, 
Still  seeking  some  congenial  place  ; 
Oh,  well  I  deem,  when  cold  at  last, 
— The  mystic  dance  of  being  past ; 
The  mind  shall  mount  on  pinions  free, 

And  as  the  clod,  when  life  is  done, 
Gives  dust  to  dust,  so  it  shall  be 

A  portion  of  the  living  sun  ! 

An  hundred  tents  are  on  the  shore,  — 
Ten  thousand  men  of  war,  or  more  — 
Some  slumbering  on  the  gilded  plain, 
That  soon  shall  sleep,  nor  wake  again; 
While  others  wipe  the  morning  dew 
From  cap  and  spur,  and  falchion  true  ; 
And  many  a  group  at  random  strayed, 

By  lake  and  river,  fair  to  see, 
Or  lolled  beneath  the  fragrant  shade 

Of  sorbos  and  arbutos  tree. 

The  leader's  tent  was  by  the  wave, 
Such  the  command  Lord  Lodar  gave 
Nor  was  it  guarded  all  too  well ; 
Alone,  one  light  armed  sentinel, 
Behind  the  breezy  chamber  stood  — 


LORD  NIAL.  119 

The  front  was  bounded  by  the  flood. 
A  foot  approached  (his  eye  was  bent), 
A  chieftain  neared  the  sacred  tent  — 
The  soldier  kne\v  him  at  a  o-lance, 

O 

And  faced  his  post,  and  lowered  his  lance ; 
The  warrior  slowly  bent  his  head  — 
A  chieftain's  thanks  for  homage  paid. 

"  I  seek  the  Earl." 

"  As  yet,  Sir  Knight, 
He  has  not  seen  the  morning  light." 

"  What !  not  gone  forth  at  all,  today  ? 
He  rarely  sleeps  the  night  away  ; 
And  now  the  sun  seems  two  hours  old, 
Nor  is  the  morning  damp  or  cold  — 
Sir  Page,  within  there,  ho !" 

"Hilloh!" 

"Why  lags  my  lord?" 

"  Heaven  knows !  for  me  — 
He  left  his  couch  three  hours  ago." 


120  LORD  NIAL. 

"How now,  sir!" 

"  By  the  holy  Three ! 
Since  I  was  posted  on  this  spot, 
Or  man,  or  mortal  past  me  not ; 
And  save  he  took  the  water's  side, 
My  lord  's  within, — " 

"  Else  thou  hast  lied  1 
A  bugler  there,  alarm  the  host !" 
Quick  flew  the  word  from  post  to  post ; 
To  none  he  came,  by  none  he  crossed  ; 
"  By  all  that  's  curst,  the  chieftain  's  lost !  — 
Perchance  in  sacred  nook  laid  low 
By  coward  stab,  from  lurking  foe. 
A  thousand  tongues  at  once  speak  out  — 
If  living,  he  had  heard  that  shout  — 
Search  furze  and  hollow,  brake  and  tree  — 
Search  wheresoe'er  a  man  might  be  — 
Ha !   who  descends  from  yonder  height? 
A  warrior,  by  his  corslet  bright  — 
By  all  the  saints  to  whom  we  pray, 
The  Earl  himself — huzza!  huzza!" 

So  spoke  Sir  Percy  Hildebrand, 


LORD  NIAL.  121 

The  second  chieftain  in  command; 
And  one  who  to  be  first  had  given 
The  little  claim  he  held  on  heaven. 
Whate'er  he  said  of  secret  blow, 
Was  just  because  he  willed  it  so; 
In  the  first  whirl  of  new-born  hope, 
He  gave  the  lurking  venom  scope; 
For  all  that  stormy  burst  of  wo, 
Lips  pale  and  trembling,  starting  eyes, 
Was  only  triumph  in  disguise. 
Meanwhile  the  chieftain  drew  more  near  — 

11  What  demon  drove  the  forces  here?" 


"  My  lord,  no  demon  could  have  driven 
The  favored  of  the  Pope  and  Heaven  ; 

No  arm  but  Lodar's  could  have  led — " 


"  Sir  Percy !" 

"Sir?" 

"  The  riddle  's  read, 
*  Your  slaves  but  ill  performed  their  task." 

"  My  Lord,  what  slaves  ?" 

"  Does  Percy  ask  I 


122  LORD  NIAL. 

The  ruffian  stabbeis  whom  you  sent 
To  beard  your  chieftain  in  his  tent ; 
By  heavens  !  you  act  it  wondrous  wellr 
So  guiltless  —  yet  as  black  as  hell ! 
What !  dare  you  bandy  looks  ?  beware  — 
Here  stands  a  tree  —  a  traitor  there ; 
But  to  my  tale,  and  mark  it  well ! 
The  blow  was  heavy,  and  I  fell ; 
They  bound  me,  as  they  thought,  a  corse  - 
They  flung  me,  sack-like,  on  a  horse. 
The  motion  roused  me  by  the  way, 
Still,  like  a  sack,  perforce  I  lay  ; 
Yet  much  I  marvelled  at  the  things 
That  kept  me  in  my  leading  strings  ; 
So  young,  so  slight —  I  deemed  it  hard 
To  be  the  charge  of  such  a  guard ; 
For  hale,  and  free,  as  now  I  stand, 
Without  a  sapling  in  my  hand, 
Not  fifty  such,  should  all  assist, 
Could  tie  a  ribbon  to  my  wrist. 
The  one  was  headlong,  silent,  wild  — 
The  other  chatted,  jeered,  and  smiled  — 
And  seemed,  for  all  his  ruffian  trade, 
As  merry  as  a  lady's  maid  ; 
Nor  did  the  semblance  finish  there, 


LORD  NIAL. 

So  slight  his  fingers,  and  so  fair; 
And  once,  as  I  essayed  to  speak, 
His  nails  were  grappled  in  my  cheek. 
And  then  they  pitched  me  to  the  ground, 
And  round  a  stump  my  fetters  wound  ; 
And  then  the  tallest  of  the  pair, 
Unbraced  my  helm,  and  left  me  bare. 
At  length  my  strength  was  all  restored ; 
With  sudden  wrench  I  snapped  the  cord, 
I  sought  the  camp  —  the  hill  was  clear  — 
Your  foot-marks  led,  and  I  am  here  ! 
And  whatsoever  the  intent  might  be, 
The  cause,  Sir  Percy,  came  from  thee !" 

Then  up  Lord  Lodar's  suite  arose  — 
Sir  Percy's  friends  their  arms  oppose  — 
High  pealed  the  war-trump,  deep  and  wide, 
The  rival  chiefs,  their  powers  divide, 
Five  thousand  strong  on  either  side. 
Each  line  was  formed  from  left  to  right 
As  level  as  an  arrow's  flight  — 
"  Make  ready,"  and  each  falchion  bright 
Flashed  upwards  like  a  line  of  light; 
And  every  lance  was  in  its  rest, 
All  bristling  onward,  breast  to  breast, 


124  LORD  NIAL. 

From  either  side  the  onset  rose, 

Away  !  and  with  a  rush  they  close, 

And  many  a  brand  a  scabbard  found  — 

And  many  a  trunk  lay  piled  around  ; 

And  shrieks,  and  wailings  rose  in  air, 

The  dying  in  their  last  despair, 

No  pride  of  cause  sustained  them  there  ; 

And  those  who  fought,  felt  not  the  glow 

That  warms  us  to  the  deadlier  foe; 

They  knew  how  light  the  glory  gained 

From  brand  in  friendly  bosom  stained  ; 

But  still  their  hearts  grew  black  with  hate  — 

And  still  they  urged  the  shafts  of  fate, 

With  such  a  headlong  scorn  of  life, 

As  would  have  graced  a  nobler  strife. 

No  private  will  had  they  to  serve, 

They  were  their  lords',  hand  heart  and  nerve, 

Their  battle  cries,  —  Lord  Lodar's  hight, 

"  Let  none  advance  that  fear  the  fight11  — 

Sir  Percy's — "ON,  AND  ONWARD  STILL" 

To  them,  was  fate,  and  hope,  and  will. 

And  as  the  windless  swell  of  ocean, 

Rolling  with  revolving  motion, 

When  every  gust  that  tore  its  crest 

Has  shrunk  into  its  cave  of  rest : 


LORD  N1AL.  125 

So  moved  that  ring  of  fighting  men, 

In  one  close  mass  of  conflict  then : 

Now  here,  now  there,  from  side  to  side, 

Revolving  like  the  restless  tide ; 

Each  host  in  turn  strains  on  a-main  — 

Or  from  the  centre  backs  again  — 

For  though,  since  first  they  clashed  in  strife 

A  thousand  men  had  passed  from  life, 

In  equal  share  from  either  host, 

A  vantage  foot  could  neither  boast. 

Oh  !   where  is  Nial  ?  where  his  band  ? 

Speed  Freedom  !  —  Vengeance  speed  the  free  ! 
Now  is  the  time  a  single  brand 

Might  make  an  offering  worthy  thee  — 
When  mighty  villains  strive  for  sway, 
They  each  become  the  easier  prey, 
And  is  it  not  a  deed  of  grace 
To  take  advantage  of  the  base  1 
They  come  !  I  hear  their  war-drums  beat, 
Far,  far,  and  indistinct,  and  sweet ; 
They  steal  not  through  the  night  along, 
But  come  in  sunlight  and  in  song  : 
'T  is  now  more  palpable  and  near  — 

No  clarion  blast  or  trumpet  bray, 


126  LORD  NIAL, 

But  their  own  voices,  bold  and  clearr 
Joined  in  a  gladsome  roundelay. 

,'•  '  -,,[  77o>" 

"  O  !  how  the  hireling  whining, 
His  golden  bonds  entwining, 

May  envy  us, 

Advancing  thus, 
To  rest,  without  repining." 

The  fight  was  in  its  fullest  tide, 

A  boiling  whirl  of  carnage  wide ; 

And  in  the  very  vortex  stood 

Lord  Lodar  at  his  work  of  blood; 

And  as  his  weapon  rose  and  fell, 

'T  was  seen  that  he  performed  it  well ; 

For  every  time  it  flashed  on  high, 

The  blade  seemed  of  a  bloodier  dye. 

'T  was  now  upon  its  sweep  of  ire, 

As  fleet  and  fell  as  shaft  of  fire ; 

When,  quick  as  thought,  he  stopped  its  course, 

And  turned  him  on  his  plunging  horse; 

"  Hark  !  heard  ye  not  their  war-whoop  then  !  — 

Tush  !  't  was  some  vapor  of  the  brain ; 

They  durst  not  come,  that  rebel  train, 

To  beard  me  on  the  open  plain  ; 

—  By  Haco's  head  !  that  shout  again." 


LORD  NIAL.  1-27 

And  as  he  said,  that  war-song  high, 
In  one  wild  shout  broke  through  the  sky; 
Nor  hill,  nor  wood,  its  tones  suppressed, 
But  on  it  came,  deep,  broad,  and  blest ; 
Five  hundred  tongues  the  notes  prolong, 
And  heart  and  soul  were  in  the  song ; 
For  as  it  rose,  so  rich  the  sound, 
The  wildest  of  the  echoes  round 
Tried  every  art,  but  tried  in  vain, 
To  raise  her  voice  above  that  strain,. 

"  The  lowly  traitors  near  us,  rf  ,    V 

That  tremble  while  they  hear  us, 

When  they  have  seen 

Our  banners  green, 
Shall  envy  as  they  fear  us. 
Stream  on,  ye  birds  of  beauty  ! 
Our  only  guides  to  duty ; 

For  save 't  is  wrung 

Your  staves  among, 
We  seek  not  fame  nor  booty." 

Those  words  fell  sad  on  Lodar's  soul. 
He  strove,  but  could  not  all  control 
The  rush  of  conscience,  wakened  now> 
Which  burned  one  instant  o'er  his  brow. 


128  LORD  NIAL. 

"  Speed,  Fergus,  to  Sir  Percy  —  speed! 
No  other  course  will  serve  our  need ; 
Lest  in  the  whirlwind  of  his  wrath, 
He  joins  the  rebel  in  his  path ; 
Tell  him,  in  Henry's  name,  no  more 
On  friendly  hearts  our  hate  we  '11  pour, 
But  settle,  on  some  future  day, 
The  justice  of  our  broil  —  away  !" 

Then  Fergus  sheathed  his  smoking  knife, 

And  sped  unharmed  amidst  the  strife. 

Sir  Percy  heard  him  when  he  came, 

And  bowed  him  to  king  Henry's  name  ; 

And  much  of  joy  his  eye  expressed, 

His  arm  from  civil  broil  to  rest ; 

For  little  faith  that  hour  had  he 

Upon  his  chieftain's  fealty  ; 

For  he  that  once  rejects  his  creed 

Will  turn  again  in  case  of  need. 

And  now  is  Lodar's  Earl  again 

The  only  leader  on  the  plain  ; 

And  now  it  is  as  truly  seen, 

The  human  crowd  's  a  mere  machine, 

Worked  by  some  crafty  engineer, 

Who  as  he  wills  may  drive  or  steer  • 

A  thing  to  toil,  and  sweat,  and  groan, 


LORD  MAL. 

Without  one  motive  of  its  o\vn. 
But  hold  !   Sir  Percy  gives  the  word 

To  form  upon  the  senior  line  ; 
And  fifty  chieftains'  tongues  are  heaid, 

And  columns  move  by  word  or  sign. 

"  Left  shoulders,  forward  —  right  incline," 
And  hark  !  the  pivot  captain's  shout, 
"  Out  markers,  by  the  centre  out"  — 
Forth  speed  the  markers —  wheel  about, 

And  cover  in  a  row  ; 
And  now  the  points  are  all  prepared, 
They  wait  but  for  the  signal  word  — 
It  comes  at  length,  like  bugle  bray;  •  I 
"Forth,  double  by  the  left  —  away!" 

And  on,  and  on  they  go. 

Meanwhile  a  line  of  banners  green, 
Among  the  mountain  rocks  are  si  en  ; 
And  now  five  hundred  plumes  of  white, 
As  stainless  as  the  flakes  of  night, 
That  lie  on  Turk's  untrodden  height, 

Come  winding  down  the  glen  ; 
And  now  the  rocks  are  on  the  right, 
And  now,  by  all  that  Js  blest  and  bright  \ 
I  never  saw  so  fair  a  sight, 

As  that  five  hundred  men. 


130  LORD  NIAL. 

Their  brands  and  helms  are  gilded  brass, 
Of  flaming  steel  each  broad  cuirass, 
And  arm,  and  thigh,  are  hedged  in  steel, 
And  some  have  golden  spur  on  heel, 
And  all  have  scarfs  of  brightest  sheen, 
The  gift  of  brighter  maids,  I  ween, 

Around  their  shoulders  hung  ; 
And  O  !  the  dame  may  well  be  proud, 
Whose  warrior  rides  in  that  bright  crowd  ; 
For  every  glowing  cheek  is  bare, 
And  all  are  fair,  or  once  were  fair, 
For  Time  has  left  his  traces  there ; 

The  few  alone  are  young: 
But,  though  he  touched  their  locks  with  gray. 
Though  on  their  cheeks  his  furrows  lay, 
Their  hearts,  too  proud  to  brook  decay, 
Have  laughed  the  tyrant's  wrath  away; 

And  as  they  stand  this  hour, 
Each  glowing  brow,  and  flashing  eye, 
The  types  of  things  that  never  die, 
Portray  unshaken  energy, 

And  undiminished  power. 
But  thou,  Lord  Nial  !  thou  alone, 
A  god  amidst  immortals  shone, 
A  blaze  of  light  from  heel  to  plume, 


LORD  NIAL.  131 

A  cheek  of  beauty,  youth,  and  bloom  ; 
And  such  a  form,  and  such  an  eye, 
If  there  's  a  maid  in  yonder  sky 

Unmated  at  this  hour, 
She  well  may  wish  thy  ransom  nigh, 

To  woo  thee  to  her  bower  ; 
But  0  !  if  Memory  holds  her  ties, 

When  souls  are  riven  in  twain, 
The  brightest  girl  in  paradise 

May  woo,  but  woo  in  vain. 

0 !  thou  dear  Muse,  that  rules  tonight, 

Assist  me  as  I  soar; 
Call  every  unborn  gush  to  light, 
And  bid  the  tints  be  bold  and  bright, 
Even  though  so  wild  a  whirl  of  strife 
Should  so  unsap  my  trunk  of  life, 

That  I  might  sing  no  more. 
Lord  Nial  was  the  first  to  see 

That  bloody  plain  below, 
The  first  to  shout,  "  God  speeds  the  free," 

And  thunder  on  the  foe. 
On !  on  they  rushed,  that  noble  band, 
A  falchion  sheath  in  each  right  hand, 
Which,  as  they  ueared  the  line  at  length, 


132  LORD  NIAL. 

They  forward  flung  with  headlong  strength, 

And  followed  with  a  yell. 
Their  scabbards  so  confused  the  van, 
That  scarce  a  blow  was  given  by  man, 

Till  thrice  two  hundred  fell. 
Oh  !   Heaven  —  the  shout,  the  shock  of  war, 

As  breast  to  breast  they  met ! 
The  roar  of  vengeance,  wilder  far  — 

— Of  fear,  even  wilder  yet !  — 
Up,  up !  my  soul,  for  O !  thou  art 

A  scion  of  the  free, 
And  triumph  o'er  each  hireling  heart 

That  bleeds  along  the  lea. 
But  ill  that  miscellaneous  band, 
The  ruffian  scum  of  many  a  land, 
Could  bide  the  onset,  brand  to  brand ; 
For  by  the  length  in  which  they  lay, 
A  part  was  only  brought  in  play, 
Which, -panic-struck,  gave  instant  way, 
While  through  the  rent,  with  wild  huzza,. 

Lord  Nial's  squadrons  flew  ; 
Then  wheeled  their  chargers  in  the  rear  — 
Leant  o'er  their  necks  with  crouchant  spearr 
And  back  again,  though  now  the  ranks 
Were  trebled  from  the  outward  flanks, 


LORD  NIAL.  133 

They  hacked  their  red  way  through. 
In  vain  the  deadly  rock  was  slung  — 
In  vain  a  thousand  javelins  rung  — 
And  dart  on  dart  went  whistling  by; 
Still  rose  the  outlaws'  battle-cry, 
Still  flashed  their  reeking  brands  on  high, 
Like  crimson  meteors  through  the  sky ; 

And  still,  of  all  their  train, 
Though  death  looked  out  from  many  an  eye, 
Though  many  a  vein  was  parched  and  dry, 

Not  one  had  pressed  the  plain  ; 
For  will  supplied  the  lack  of  nerve, 

And  hate  sustained  them  still; 
They  could  not  from  the  battle  swerve, 

While  hope  conduced  a  thrill; 
For  even  the  latest  blow  might  serve 

A  traitor's  life  to  spill. 
But  now  Sir  Percy,  furious  grown, 
Gave  metal  to  his  panting  roan, 

And  rushed  to  the  attack  ; 
Five  hundred  troopers,  stout  and  young, 
With  many  a  gentle  Knight  among, 
Came  bounding  at  his  back  ; 
They  met;  as  flood  and  flame  they  met, 
So  rose  the  steam  from  sabres  wet, 

N 


134  LORD  NIAL. 

From  hissing  vein  below  ; 
For  ere  had  ceased  their  onset  shout, 
Brand,  helm,  and  plume  were  strewn  about, 
And  many  a  cheek,  and  bosom  fair, 
Lay  resting,  all  so  tranquil  there, 

To  feast  the  carrion  crow. 
But  still  the  odds  are  with  the  brave  — 
Still  high  their  emerald  streamers  wave  — 
Even  those  who  to  the  death  recline, 
Still  fix  their  sight  on  that  blest  sign, 

And  proudly  swell  the  cry, 
"  Erin  for  ever  !"   name  divine  ! 
Then  feebly  sigh,  "  Heaven's  peace  be  thine  !" 

And  on  the  blessing  die. 

Sir  Percy  fain  would  prove  a  spear 
With  Nial,  in  his  first  career; 
But  when  he  caught  the  hero's  glance, 
His  own  was  instant  turned  askance  ; 
He  could  not  brook  the  scornful  ire, 
Which  pierced  him  in  that  glance  of  fire, 
And  yet 't  was  more  of  conscience  far 
Than  fear,  withheld  him  from  the  war ; 
He  shrunk  not  that  Lord  Nial's  arm 
Flung  death  about,  as  by  a  charm  — 


LORD  N1AL. 

Nor  feared  he,  though  in  breast  or  limb, 
He  was  not  formed  to  strive  with  him  • 
But  such  the  halo  Freedom  threw 

Around  her  votary  in  that  hour, 
That  Percy  shrunk  before  his  view, 

And  faded  in  his  power  ; 
He  felt  himself  a  lowly  thing, 
His  hope  grew  dim,  his  pride  took  wing, 

He  turned,  and  would  have  fled  — 
But  Nial's  halbert  left  its  rest, 
And  forced  its  way  through  back  and  breast 
The  chieftain  sighed,  "  And  is  it  so  ! 
To  die  like  slave  by  backward  blow  ?" 
Then  bending  to  his  saddle  low, 

His  drooping  spirit  fled. 

His  warriors,  when  their  leader  fell, 
Amazed,  distressed,  and  heartless  stood, 

Gazing  where  he  that  loved  them  well 
Lay  weltering  in  the  purple  flood  ; 

But  soon  their  sorrow,  fear,  or  scorn 

'Mid  the  wild  din  of  strife  \vas  borne  ; 

For  now  the  ranks  were  all  engaged, 

On  every  side  the  conflict  raged  ; 

And  either  wing  was  inward  bent, 


136  LORD  NIAL. 

Directed  to  a  central  vent, 

And  every  bow,  and  brand,  at  length 

On  one  great  focus  poured  its  strength, 

And  Nial,  and  his  martyr  band, 

Were  inward  pent  on  every  hand, 

While  that  grim  ring  with  fearful  skill, 

Moved  onward,  inward,  closing  still. 

But  long  shall  vengeance  bless  the  day. 

That  gallant  host  was  driven  to  bay, 

For  haply  else  it  would  have  fell, 

Nor  left  so  red  a  tale  to  tell ; 

The  more  compressed  the  mountain's  fire, 

The  more  it  triumphs  in  its  ire, 

So  maddened,  the  concentred  few, 

More  than  the  many  spread,  can  do ; 

For  as  in  poesy,  in  war, 

Strength,  well  condensed,  grows  stronger  far, 

Still  rolls  along  the  tide  of  strife, 
When  none  or  grant,  or  seek  for  life ; 
When  mind  and  blood  are  in  the  glow, 
That  fear,  nor  feel,  nor  spare  the  blow ; 
For  all  so  wrapt  the  heart  and  brain, 
In  the  dear  human  hope  to  kill, 


LORD  NIAL.  137 

That  many  a  man  has  pressed  that  plain, 
Whose  arm  is  up,  defying  still. 

Out !  out,  my  soul  upon  my  song, 

And  mingle  in  that  bloody  throng ; 

I  see  the  soldiers  strike,  and  trust  — 

I  see  the  wounded  bite  the  dust  — 

And  panting  steeds,  and  panting  men 

Advance,  and  wheel,  and  charge  again, 

And  hurry,  hurry,  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  their  falchions  go  — 

Banners  sink,  and  banners  soar, 

Sink  again,  and  rise  no  more  — 

Soldiers  grapple,  strive,  and  bend  — 

Shrieks  and  battle-shouts  ascend. 

"  The  brave  may  fall,  but  never  yield" — 

"  Thus  forward  to  the  stars  afield." 

"  Milesian,"  "  On,  and  onward  still," 

"St.  Patrick"  and  "  St.  Collomb  Kill." 

And  many  a  saint  of  name  as  fair, 

Whose  lives  were  spent  in  peace  and  prayer, 

Were  called  on,  in  that  whirl  of  strife, 

To  aid  them  in  the  waste  of  life. 

The  ravens  gather  to  the  slaughter, 

Blood  is  flowing,  free  as  water, 

N* 


138  LORD  IsIAL. 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot, 

Left  and  right,  they  still  dispute 

The  palm  of  \ictory  —  fate  impending, 

Hangs  on  every  blade  descending, 

Every  banner  stave  is  bloody 

— Axe  and  sabre  hacked  and  ruddy; 

Every  steed  is  faint  and  blowing, 

Cheek  and  bosom  flushed  and  glowing; 
While  the  soul  of  Freedom  sickens, 
As  the  roar  of  carnage  thickens, 
To  see  how  fast  —  Oh  !   sight  appalling  — 
The  noblest  of  her  sons  are  falling. 

But  still  Lord  Nial  hacked  his  way, 
Still  kept  an  hundred  brands  in  play; 
Both  helm  and  shield  received  like  wax 
The  impress  of  his  battle-axe; 
Still  round  him  closed  the  hostile  ring, 
Though  thinned  at  every  fatal  swing, 
While  onward,  onward  still  he  pressed, 
Bloody  and  gored  from  boot  to  crest, 
'Mid  the  surrounding  swords  that  fall, 
Him  single,  but  a  match  for  all. 

Lord  Lodar  marked  him  from  afar  : 
11  Now,  by  the  head  of  Starchetar, 


LORD  NIAL.  139 

'T  were  pity  that  a  soul  so  brave 

Were  sped  by  falchion  of  a  slave." 

And  on  he  thundered,  "  Slaves,  for  shame!  — 

Lord  Nial,  in  King  Henry's  name, 

I  offer  pardon." 

"  This  to  me? 

I  thank  thee  for  the  courtesy  ; 
Would  Heaven  thy  king  was  near  me  too, 
He  should  not  lack  the  tribute  due !" 

"Enough  for  friendship  —  be  it  so! 
King  Henry's  is  Lord  Lodar's  foe." 

"  Which  makes  thee,  at  the  mildest  view, 
Sir  Chieftain,  but  a  traitor  true. 
Would  Heaven  thou  wert  as  good,  as  brave, 
To  be  more  worthy  of  my  glave." 

They  met —  Oh  !  for  a  word  of  flame, 

To  give  that  clash  a  better  name ; 

A  v.'ord,  through  which  the  sound  might  flow, 

In  keeping  with  my  spirit's  glow. 

As  when  two  stars  (when  either  force 

The  other  from  its  destined  course) 


140  LORD  NIAL. 

Sweep  through  the  heavens  with  headlong  hasle, 

Till  in  the  midst  they  stand  embraced; 

So  met  those  chieftains,  swift  as  fate, 

Forced  inwards  by  a  central  hate  : 

And  as  two  practiced  hammers  go, 

On  the  shrill  anvil,  blow  for  blow, 

So  clash  their  weapons,  fast  and  fell, 

So  rings  again  their  echoes'  swell ; 

Their  battered  beavers  long  shall  tell 

How  fierce  their  blows,  and  aimed  how  well : 

They  rest  —  they  tug  —  they  feign  their  blows, 

Again  they  part  —  again  they  close ; 

The  startled  blood-bird  leaves  his  prey, 

To  gaze  upon  that  fearful  fray, 

And  marks  their  ruddy  blades  with  glee  ; 

Even  hate  suspends  her  toil,  to  see 

The  mighty  strife,  and  all  is  still, 

Save  the  wild  echoes  of  the  hill. 

'T  is  finished  —  to  its  proudest  height  ; 

Lord  Nial  raised  his  form  of  might, 

His  war-trained  steed  stood  half  erect, 

To  give  the  blow  the  more  effect ;  vf  i 

And  up  his  ponderous  weapon  went, 

To  gather  strength  for  its  descent  — 


LORD  NIAL.  141 

Th'  exhausted  foeman  marked  it  well, 

And  felt  't  would  slay  him  as  it  fell : 

Was  it  the  consciousness  of  sin  — 

The  throb  of  guilty  fear  within, 

That  made  him  tremble,  as  he  gazed 

On  the  red  reeking  terror,  raised 

To  crush  him  ?  —  from  his  quivering  lips 

Escaped  a  deep  repentant  sigh; 
Then,  then,  he  felt  the  scorpion  whips 

Of  Conscience,  and  he  feared  to  die. 
The  axe  was  in  its  earthward  bent; 
Through  crest  and  helm  crash,  crash!  it  went; 
And  clove  the  skull  so  fair  in  two, 
Each  side  seemed  equal  size  to  view, 
As  bloody,  horrible,  and  bare, 
They  lay  upon  his  shoulders  there ! 
He  shook  and  fell  —  I  durst  not  say 
God  speed  the  traitor  on  his  way. 
If  mercy  may  be  sought  and  found, 
Betwixt  the  stirrup  and  the  ground, 
Haply  the  prayer  was  not  in  vain 
He  died  repeating1,  but  the  stain 
Of  thraldom,  wedded  to  his  name, 
Forever  damns  Lord  Lodar's  fame. 


142  LORD  NIAL. 

Along  the  banks,  ten  thousand  men 

That  morn  arose  to  view, 
All  anxious,  proud,  and  buoyant  then, 

And  that  fair  lake  was  blue. 
The  evening  came  —  and  where  were  they  ? 

Ask  him  who  keeps  the  dead ! 
Seven  thousand  souls  had  passed  away, 

And  that  fair  lake  was  red. 
Oh !  well  had  Discord  woven  her  toil,  — 
Well  stirred  the  flame  of  civil  broil ; 
Else  had  that  band  of  martyrs  past, 
Nor  won  such  glorious  graves  at  last. 
What  could  they  do  with  such  an  host  * 
One  rush  —  one  shout  —  and  all  was  lost ; 
For  twenty  swords  with  instant  bound, 
A  home  in  every  heart  had  found  ; 
But  so  confused  the  line  had  been, 
When  first  came  on  the  banners  green, 
That  full  six  thousand  lives  had  flown, 
Before,  five  hundred  brands  alone. 
But  Death,  unsated  with  his  prize, 
Still  claims  a  nobler  sacrifice  ; 
There  's  scarce  a  warrior  still  unblest, 
Who  bears  a  trefoil  on  his  crest, 
Though  here  and  there,  alone  and  rare, 


LORD  NIAL.  143 

An  emerald  pennon  might  be  kenned, 
Now  soaring  proudly  in  the  air  — 

Now  sinking  \vith  a  struggling  bend  — 
Till  many  a  powerful  effort  past, 
O'erwhelmed  and  rent,  it  falls  at  last. 

And  now,  alas  !  the  brave  are  gone 
Into  the  dark  grave,  one  by  one  ; 
Left  life,  and  hope,  and  promise  fair, 
For,  freedom,  and  a  bloody  lair  ! 
But  what  is  death  to  those  who  die 
'Mid  stroke,  and  flash,  and  battle-cry? 
When  all  so  wrapt  in  pride,  and  hate, 

Fame  —  vengeance  —  war-cry  —  sabre  clang, 
The  soul  goes  bounding  to  its  fate, 
Before  the  heart  has  felt  a  pang. 
Let  him  that  loves  a  long  decay, 
Feed  death  by  grains  from  day  to  day, 
On  cankered  heart  and  sunken  breast, 

In  which  the  soul  is  all  at  rest ; 

Still  let  him  linger,  pine  and  cling, 

A  poor  neglected,  trembling  thing ; 

Who,  when  he  goes  at  length,  shall  leave 

No  eye  to  weep  —  no  heart  to  grieve  j 

For  as  his  life  and  death  have  been 

Too  mixed  to  draw  a  line  between, 


144  LORD  NIAL. 

So,  living,  he  claimed  every  tear 

That  should  have  graced  the  dead  man's  bier. 

But  if  to  me  the  choice  were  given 

(Still  bending  to  the  will  of  Heaven), 

Ere  wasting  plague,  or  fever  grim, 

Had  sunk  a  tooth  in  heart  or  limb, 

While  hope  was  on  its  summer  wing, 

I  'd  pass  from  nature  with  a  spring. 

The  victim  of  a  thousand  glaves, 

Lord  Nial  powerless  drooped  at  length, 
Surrounded  by  a  pile  of  slaves, 

That  fell  beneath  his  arm  of  strength  ,* 
When  hark!    that  deep  desponding  shriek  ! 
The  blood  remounted  in  his  cheek, 
And  life  returning,  flashed  again 
From  his  dark  eye,  as  o'er  the  plain 
He  gazed  —  Oh  !  must  he  gaze  in  vain  ? 
A  band  of  desperate  fiends,  or  men  ! 

(So  dark  their  looks  of  horror  fell 
On  all  around,  't  were  hard  to  ken 

If  they  belonged  to  earth  or  hell), 
Came  rushing  past  him  in  pursuit 

Of  a  lorn  maid,  who  wildly  fled, 
The  eye  of  every  reeking  brute 

IKMW>»0  ••>!!»[  Ii  'HQlb  OJ 


LORD  NIAL.  145 

Flashed  lightning-,  and  each  arm  of  dread 

Upheld  a  ruddy  sword ; 
And  as  the  shrieking  victim  passed, 
One  wild  —  one  lingering  look  she  cast 
Upon  Lord  Nial  —  Saints  of  rest ! 
Sustain  the  warrior  at  the  test, 
Lest  in  his  wrath  he  should  presume 
To  kick  against  the  smiter's  doom  ; 
'T  was  Mary's  self  implored. 

And  on  she  went  —  and  now  that  blow 
Has  cleft  her  brow  of  beauty  —  no  ! 
Some  pitying  angel's  viewless  hand 
Has  saved  her  from  that  reeking  brand; 

But  still  they  followed —  still  she  flew 

No  friendly  sword  —  no  hope  in  view  — 
On  either  side  the  way  was  steep  — 
Before  her  smiled  the  glittering  deep  ; 
Where  shall  she  turn  her  ?  shall  she  crave 

The  life  she  scorns  ?  Oh  !  never,  while 
There  's  safety  in  that  sacred  wave, 

Can  she  solicit  boon  so  vile. 
Boldly  she  plunged,  far,  far  and  deep, 

The  goal  is  won  —  the  chase  is  o'er  — 


146  LORD  NIAL. 

Bright  be  the  visions  of  her  sleep, 

Or  may  she  dream  no  more. 

:  srii  as  bflA 

No  lyre  shall  breathe,  no  pencil  trace 
The  anguish  of  that  chieftain's  face, 
As  in  the  strength  of  his  despair 
He  rose,  all  bleeding,  from  his  lair  ; 
An  age  of  pain  he  'd  bear,  to  be 
One  instant  from  his  weakness  free ; 
And  forth  he  staggered  towards  the  flood, 
Where  still  those  gory  monsters  stood. 
"  Demons !"  he  cried,  "  for  such  I  deem 

You  are,  for  men  ne'er  looked  as  ye  — 
Am  I  the  victim  of  a  dream? 

Or  is  this  all  reality  ?" 
They  turned,  and  soon  that  hapless  chief 
Had  found  due  solace  for  his  grief; 
When  instant  every  sword  was  staid, 
And  every  cheek  was  blanched  with  dread ; 
For  on  the  sleeping  flood  was  seen 
A  warrior,  and  his  banner  green ; 
Lord  Nial  bowed,  for  well  he  knew 
The  standard  of  O'Donohoe  ! 
He  had  not  come  alone  to  save 
The  hero  from  the  hireling  glave; 
For  prancing  steed,  and  pageant  gay, 


LORD  N1AL.  147 

Proclaimed  the  cause  —  THE  FIRST  OF  MAY  ! 

And  O  !  the  thousand  forms  of  light, 

That  swam  before  the  warrior's  sight ! 

And  though  his  eye  was  glazed  and  dim, 

He  saw  that  all  looked  kind  on  him  ; 

And  then  a  minstrel  caught  his  gaze  — 

I  blush  to  sing  that  minstrel's  praise; 

But  he  had  stood  rebuke  severe 

In  service  of  his  mistress  dear ; 

And  light  he  recked  of  threatened  pain, 

If  he  might  see  her  smile  again; 

But  more  than  all,  I  blush  to  say, 

How  well  that  minstrel  woke  the  lay  ; 

Wrapt  Echo  caught  his  wondrous  strain, 

And  sang  it  to  herself  again  ; 

And  then  he  glanced  around  and  smiled, 

Elated  at  the  powers  of  song, 
And  finishing  his  prelude  wild, 

He  poured  its  soul  along  : 


SONG. 

We,  from  lands  beneath  the  sea, 
Have  hither  soared  on  fleetest  pinions  j 


148  LORD  NIAL. 

Mortal !    wilt  thou  go  with  me  ? 

I  '11  lead  thee  to  our  bright  dominions. 

"  If  there  was  charm  in  Mary's  eye, 
0  !   leave  the  world  a  lasting  token  : 

Or  dost  thou  fear  with  her  to  die? 
Or  is  the  bond  of  beauty  broken  ? 

"  :T  is  sweet  to  see,  as  life  departs 

On  lingering  wing,  —  it  knows  not  whither  — 
The  unity  of  two  fond  hearts, 

To  cleave  through  endless  hours  together. 

:  7iv!-uh  •:.-  'ov;  ftifcrtw  ^7^*  7/oH 
"  O,  would'st  thou  sleep  beside  a  slave 

Of  ruffian  race,  and  heart  imbruited? 
And  shall  the  flowers  of  Mini's  grave 

By  foot  of  satrap  be  polluted  ? 

"Not  while  this  sacred  flood  can  save 
From  such  pollution  —  never,  never  ! 

Then  haste,  O  !  haste  beneath  the  wave, 
And  clasp  the  form  you  loved  forever/' 


The  breathing  wires  were  hushed  at  last, 

—  prince,  and  nageant  —  all  were  past ; 


LORD  NIAL.  149 

A  voice  was  heard  upon  the  shore, 
"  To  thee,  sweet  love,  for  evermore," 
And  then  a  plash  —  and  all  was  o'er  ; 
And  long  the  ripple  marked  the  wave 
That  rolled  above  Lord  Nial's  grave. 

******** 

My  hand  is  still  upon  the  string, 
Still  fears  the  muse  to  rest  her  wing, 

— Hope  sickens,  as  the  end  draws  near; 
And  Doubt  stands  whispering  while  I  sing 

Perchance  the  world  will  scorn  to  hear. 
And  yet,  as  I  forbear  to  sue 

For  gold,  to  mingle  with  my  bays, 
And  am  a  nameless  stranger  too, 

'T  were  cruel  to  withhold  its  praise. 
But  who  shall  honor  or  reward 
The  efforts  of  a  nameless  bard  ? 
In  vain  he  toils,  and  pines,  and  craves  — 
The  name  alone  or  sinks  or  saves  ! 
But  let  it  go  —  I  've  felt  the  glow 
Which  none  but  lovers  —  poets,  know : 
That  maddening  thrill  of  bliss,  which  springs 
Within  him,  as  he  sues  or  sings; 
Which  well  repays  a  child  of  song 
For  after  hours  of  doubt  and  wrong. 


150  LORD  NIAL. 

For  man  alone  the  rod  's  designed," 
Dear  woman  still  is  ever  kind; 
The  lover's  soul  —  the  poet's  trust, 
Too  good  —  too  heavenly,  to  be  just ! 
Even  as  she  knows  no  sympathy 
With  abject  things,  she  fails  to  see; 
For  her  pure  soul,  and  eye  of  light, 
Make  every  thing  she  sees  seem  bright. 
Then  lady,  lady!  twine  the  wreathe, 

For  thee  alone  the  verse  was  strung  — 
And  if  the  muse  has  dared  to  breathe 

One  feeling  that  were  best  unsung, 
Remember  that  the  minstrel's  soul, 
At  times,  will  spurn  his  heart's  control ; 
And  then  thine  eye  will  chide  in  vain, 
For  pity  must  elute  the  stain. 

But  to  my  song.     Lord  Nial  sought 
In  vain  for  the  repose  of  thought; 
Nay,  as  he  sank,  he  felt  the  thrill 
Of  life  renewed,  and,  stranger  still, 
Each  gaping  vent  of  soul  and  gore 
Was  instant  closed,  and  burned  no  more  ; 
And  every  fibre  of  his  frame 


LORD  NIAL.  151 

Seemed  instant  changed,  yet  still  the  same; 

For,  though  the  weight  of  time  seemed  past, 

And  he  had  'scaped  its  bonds  at  last, 

Though  from  his  heart  had  passed  away 

Each  particle  of  death's  decay, 

And  though  the  visions  of  his  mind 

Grew  more  extended  and  refined, 

Yet  Love  and  Memory  kept  their  range 

Unshaken,  in  that  mystic  change ; 

For  still  Green  Erin's  weal  was  dear  — 

And  still  was  Mary's  image  near ! 

By  this  he  feared  that  boundless  glow 

Of  joy'must  some  delusion  be: 
For  O !  could  mortal  feel  below 

So  blissful  a  reality  1 

Soon  ceased  the  doubt,  't  was  all  too  much, 
And  reason  reeled  beneath  the  touch 
Of  hope  and  fear  —  throughout  his  frame 
A  torpor  crept,  and  he  became 
Inanimate  —  what  time  life  huno- 

& 

Suspended,  down  the  warrior  went ; 
But  Oh !  Jt  is  not  for  minstrel's  tongue 
To  track  him  in  his  bright  descent. 


152  LORD  NIAL. 

SONG. 

"  Dream  no  more  of  doubt  and  anguish, 
Hope  to  blight,  and  sword  to  kill  — 

Must  a  hapless  maiden  languish 
For  her  truant  lover  still  ? 

"  Well  she  played  her  part,  and  wary — 
— Well  she  led  that  host  to  bay  — 

Vengeance  owes  to  gentle  Mary 
Half  the  laurels  won  today  1 

"  Up!  awake!  the  wreath  's  entwining, 

Meet  to  deck  a  hero's  brow ; 
Beauty's  eyes  are  round  thee  shining  ; 

Happy  youth !  arouse  thee  now." 

The  trance  had  left  his  vision  free, 

But  soon  he  closed  his  ravished  eyes  ; 

O !  dream  of  glory  !   where  was  he  ? 
In  heaven?  Ay,  heaven's  own  paradise. 

Whate'er  you  dream  of  gems  and  flowers, 
Of  birds,  and  brooks,  and  gardens  fair, 


LORD  NIAL.  153 

And  shades  and  glades,  and  fairy  bowers, 

Were  in  one  whirl  of  beauty  there ; 
Nor  star,  nor  sun,  conduced  a  ray ; 
The  lovely  world  in  which  he  lay 
Seemed  in  itself  an  orb  of  day, 
— As  if  an  inborn  soul  went  through, 
And  warmed,  and  lit,  and  moved  it  too ; 
For  every  thing  seemed  rife  with  soul  ; 
And  such  a  thrill  of  rapture  stole 
Above  —  beneath  —  throughout,  the  whole; 
That  rock,  and  river,  vale  and  mound, 
Seemed  conscious  of  the  charms  around  ; 
And  wherever  you  gazed  thro'  the  cloudless  blue, 
No  horizon  dim  obscured  the  view ; 
And  that  world  of  beauty  appeared  to  be 
The  boundless  home  of  eternity; 
And  there  were  a  thousand  forms  of  light, 
All  gliding  about  in  that  soldier's  sight, 
Such  beautiful  visions,  so  blest  and  wise, 
And  as  pure  as  the  glow  of  their  native  skies  ; 
For  sin  never  sat  on  such  lips  and  eyes, 
That  still  as  that  knight  in  amazement  lay, 
He  felt  in  his  soul  he  should  rise  and  pray. 
But  what  could  he  think  of  the  blooming  girls, 
With  their  beautiful  eyes,  and  their  shining  curls, 


154  LORD  NIAL. 

That  when  he  awoke  from  that  trance  profound, 
Were  singing,  and  laughing,  and  dancing  round  ? 
O!  what  could  he  think,  but  that  woman  alone, 
Of  all  that  above  or  around  him  shone, 
Denoted  a  kindred  with  beings  above  ; 
For  their  cheeks  full  of  bloom,  and  their  eyes  full 

of  love, 
And  their  limbs  full  of  motion,  and  hearts  full  of 

mirth, 
Seemed  all  formed  upon  models  transplanted  from 

earth  ; 

For  in  earth,  or  in  heaven,  or  in  pride,  or  in  shame, 
Still  woman,  dear  woman  !  is  ever  the  same. 

"  Oh!  if 't  is  all  some  baseless  thing, 

The  bubble  of  an  aching  brain, 
Some  god  in  pity  charge  the  sling, 

And  crush  me  ere  I  wake  again." 

He  rose,  and  all  was  as  it  seemed, 
He  did  not  rave,  he  had  not  dreamed; 
Those  forms  were  palpable  as  bright, 
As  full  of  feeling  as  of  light ; 
And  then  again  he  clasped  his  brow, 
"  Good  God  !  if  she  were  absent  now, 


LORD  NIAL.  155 

0  Thou  who  lifts  the  soul  to  prayer, 
In  mercy  guide,  in  mercy  spare: 

Or  change  again  thy  servant's  doom, 
And  let  him  leave  this  world  of  bloom, 
For  Mary,  and  a  dreamless  tomb. 
But  hark  !  that  sigh  —  or  do  I  err  ? 
Or  came  that  sound  indeed  from  her? 
The  nymph  behind  this  veil  of  gold 
Has  Mary's  step,  and  Mary's  mould ; 
She  trembles  too  !  — by  all  that  's  bright, 

1  fear  to  lift  her  shade  of  light  ; 

For  should  some  other's  form  be  there, 
Oh  God  !  how  shall  I  stand  the  test !" 

The  veil  is  up  —  the  brow  is  bare  — 
That  rush,  that  shout,  proclaim  the  rest ; 

The  lady  is  his  Mary  fair, 
And  now  indeed  is  Nial  blest. 


The  task  is  done,  the  goal  is  won  — 
The  race  were  haply  best  unrun  ; 
The  hope  is  gone  that  bade  me  soar, 
The  harp  would  fain  respond  no  more  ! 
But  still,  dear  girl,  methinks  I  hear 


156  LORD  NIAL. 

You  ask  me  if  the  bridal  's  near  ! 

Methinks  you  bid  me  note  with  care 

Each  ringlet- of  that  young  bride's  hair; 

And  how  she  looked  when  dressed  to  woo, 

And  if  her  gems  were  false  or  true, 

And  fifty  thousand  mystic  things 

Of  frills,  and  feathers,  caps,  and  rings  ; 

But  Oh  !  in  sooth  the  song  were  vain: 

I  tell  you  o'er,  and  o'er  again, 

That  Mary  was  as  you,  the  same, 

As  full  of  passion,  pride,  and  flame; 

No  flimsy  May-day  dream  ideal  — 

But  living,  loving,  lasting,  real  — 

Who  gloried  then,  as  you  do  now, 

To  see  her  lover  quail  and  bow  ; 

To  hang  upon  his  heart  embraced  — 

To  feel  his  arms  entwine  her  waist  — 

To  read  his  homage  in  his  eyes  — 

To  drink  the  odor  of  his  sighs  — 

To  hear  him  vow  he  'd  burst  the  snare ; 

Yet  still  to  find  him  lingering  there, 

A  greater  captive  than  before, 

And  sighing  that  he  'd  sin  no  more  ! 

Who  gloried  then,  as  all  maids  do, 


LORD  NIAL.  157 

In  flounce  and  frill,  green,  white,  or  blue; 

And  pink,  and  patch,  and  looking-glass, 

And  mischief  too  ;  but  let  that  pass  ! 

I  '11  not  reproach  you  with  your  crimes, 

Though,  faith !  they  're  wild  enough  by  times. 

And  so,  sweet  girl,  howe'er  you  chide, 

Yourself  must  help  to  deck  the  bride. 

Even  such  let  fancy  paint  her  brow; 

As  you  presume  your  own  is  now; 

High  —  heavenly  —  words  can  ill  express 

So  much  of  love  and  loveliness. 

And  so,  to  sketch  the  portrait  through, 

Even  let  her  pass  before  your  view, 

In  all,  almost  as  bright  as  you, 

And  then  suppose  her  garb  as  fair 

As  you  yourself  would  choose  to  wear, 

Upon  your  bridal  morn  so  near, 

For,  trust  me,  it  will  soon  be  here ! 

Unless  you  've  given  the  final  yea, 

Before  your  bard  had  time  to  pray 

For  sunshine  on  your  wedding-day. 

But  hush  !  't  is  now  the  hour  of  hours  — 

The  bridal  path  is  strewn  with  flowers, 

And  smiles  abound,  and  music  breathes, 

And  bride's -maids  don  their  fairy  wreathe*, 


1&  LORD  NIAt, 

And  forth  it  goes,  that  joyful  train, 
And  now  't  is  homeward  bound  again, 
And  softest  whispers  steal  around, 
And  Mary's  eyes  are  on  the  ground, 
But  still  her  cheek  is  rife  with  pride ; 
— I  wish  you  joy,  sweet  lady  bride  ! 
And  now  the  feast  awaits  the  guest, 
And  now  —  suppose  you  dream  the  rest  — 
How  lovers  sue,  and  ladies  sigh, 
And  melt,  and  grant,  and  still  deny ; 
How  topers,  for  the  strife  inspired, 
Begin  to  wish  the  dames  retired ; 
And  toast  the  bride  with  roguish  smile, 
And  talk  of  mystic  things  the  while ; 
Of  feasts  in  prospect  —  one,  you  know, 

In  nine  or  ten  months  hence,  or  so 

And  how  —  and  how  the  night  comes  on, 

And  how  the  maids  look  sly  anon, 

And  smile,  and  rise  and  steal  away, 

And  how  they  chide  the  bridegroom's  stay ;  — - 

For  here  the  modest  muse  retires, « 

And  wraps  her  mantle  round  the  wires. 


THE    END. 


to 


NOTES  TO  LORD  NIAL. 


THE  time  of  this  poem  is  a  night  and  a  day  ;  the 
scenes  are  all  laid  in  the  vicinity  of  Mucross  Lake. 
County  Kerry,  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 

Note  1,  page  1,  line  8.  — "  Dry  lodgings  and 
good  entertainment  for  man  and  beast."  [The  above 
inducements  to  sojourn  are  often  held  out  to  the  tra 
veller  by  the  sign-boards  of  the  village  inns  in  Ireland.] 

2,  p.  1,  line  17. —  "  McDermott  was  such  a  man," 
&c.     [A  person  answering   to    the    description  of 
this  man,   as  he  appears  in  the  book,  actually  did 
reside  for  a  short  time  in  the   neighborhood   of  the 
lakes,  about  thirteen  years  ago,  and  disappeared  un 
der  somewhat  similar  circumstances.     For  the  sake 
of  convenience,  the  reader  is  invited  to  suppose  him 
the  identical  person  who  figures  in  the  introduction 
to  Lord  Nial.] 

3,  p.  3,  line  17.  —  "  Chance  always  behaves  her 
self  as  if  she  went  by  clock-work."     [As  it  is  well 
known  that  the   old  adages  of  the  peasantry  of  all 
countries  are  in  general  verified  by  the  results,  it  is 
of  little  importance  to  discuss   the  propriety  of  Mr. 
Murphy's  alarm ;    even   to  the  present  hour,  there 
is  scarcely  a  farmer  of  the  old  stock  about  the  lakes 
of  Killamey,  who  would  not  tremble  at  the  idea  of  a 
stormy  first  of  May.] 

4,  p.  3,  line  19.  —  "  A  prince  that  formerly  lived  in 
these  parts  named  O'Donohoe."      [Histories  of  this 


162  NOTES. 

prince  have  been  written  by  a  hundred  pens.  That 
such  a  man  did  exist,  has  never  been  doubted  ;  and  it 
is  equally  certain  (letting  the  miraculous  part  go  for 
what  it  is  worth)  that  he  terminated  a  life  of  useful 
ness  and  glory,  by  deliberately  urging  his  favorite 
steed  Belus  into  the  lake  of  Mucross,  on  a  fine  May 
morning,  some  thirteen  hundred  years  ago.  The 
manner  of  his  adieu,  as  related  by  Mr.  Murphy,  is 
that  on  which  most  writers,  including  Dr.  Keating, 
have  agreed.] 

5,  p.  11,  lines  21,  &c.  —  "A  white  mist,  which 
I  could  liken  to  nothing  but  a  silver  veil,  rose  gra 
dually  around  the  lake,  to  about  the  altitude  of  a  lofty 
sorbos."  [In  mountainous  countries,  white  vapors, 
like  the  one  described,  are  frequently  observed  float 
ing  around  large  bodies  of  water;  and  at  such  times, 
it  is  to  be  presumed  that  there  are  certain  things 
going  on,  which  are  too  sacred  for  the  gaze  of  mor 
tality.  This  mist  does  not  obscure  the  water  from  an 
adjacent  eye,  although  it  serves  as  a  cloak  of  dark 
ness  for  those  beings  who  are  more  easily  imagined 
than  described  ;  and  thus,  music  is  often  heard  upon 
the  water,  while  the  minstrel  from  whom  it  proceeds 
is  perfectly  invisible." — AIKENS. 

N.  B.  As  to  its  resistance  to  the  touch,  we  cannot 
vouch;  however,  there  is  nothing  in  it  much  more 
extraordinary  than  in  an  account  we  once  read  of  the 
smoke  gathering  so  thick  over  the  ruins  of  a  burning 
city,  that  a  man  who  jumped  into  it  from  the  top  of 
a  very  high  steeple,  with  the  intention  of  destroying 
himself,  could  not  fall  through  !] 

16,  p.  12,  lines  7,  8,  and  9.  —  "  Not  the  flimsy  phan 
toms  that  our  bards  are  wont  to  describe  them,  but 
youthful,  noble,  palpable,  and  athletic."  [It  may  be 
proper  to  inform  the  reader,  that  the  supposed  inha 
bitants  of  the  lakes,  are  not  shadows,  but  actual  be 
ings,  endowed  with  the  same  faculties  as  man,  only 
in  a  more  refined  state,  and  like  him,  under  the  in 
fluence  of  all  the  nobler  passions,  especially  those  of 


NOTES.  163 

pride  and  love.  They  were  originally  sojourners  of 
the  upper  world,  but  on  account  of  pre-eminent  vir 
tues,  and  to  indemnify  them  for  undeserved  persecu 
tions,  they  were  removed  to  happier  abodes,  and  en 
dowed  with  immortality,  without  having  been  sub 
jected  to  the  dominion  of  death.  It  is  said  they  have 
the  power  to  return  again  for  a  season,  at  their  pleas 
ure,  and  to  mingle  in  the  bustle  and  concerns  of  a 
grosser  existence.  These  occurrences  are  the  sub 
jects  of  a  thousand  tales.  We  remember  several, 
from  which  we  select  the  following,  the  more  so  as 
it  was  told  us  as  authentic.! 

As  Mr.  James  X ,   of  Antrim,  in  the  north  of 

Ireland  (a  gentleman  who,  we  believe,  is  still  living) 
was  one  evening  sauntering  along  the  banks  of 
Lough  Nea,  he  saw  a  very  beautiful  and  elegantly 
attired  female,  reclining  beside  the  margin  of  the 
tide.  He  approached,  and  bowed  ;  the  lady  smiled, 
and  a  long  conversation  was  the  result.  They  met 
on  many  an  evening  afterwards,  in,  or  about  the 
same  place,  and  at  length  their  courtship  terminated 
in  marriage.  For  nearly  seven  years  she  was  the 
kindest  and  most  affectionate  of  wives ;  but  one 
evening,  at  the  termination  of  that  period,  as  she  was 
walking  with  her  husband  by  the  spot  where  he  had 
first  seen  her,  she  suddenly  stopped,  and  sighing  to 
him  despondingly,  "James.  I  am  called!"  rushed 
forward,  and  in  an  instant  vanished  beneath  the 
wave.  No  vestage  of  her  was  ever  afterwards  dis 
covered,  and  to  tnis  very  hour  the  "  old  man  weeps 
for  his  fairy  bride."  ] 

7,  p.  12,  line  16.— "All,  said  I?  ah!  no;  there 
was  one  —  one  exception;  and  that  —  a  maid." — 
[We  trust  that  no  person  will  be  unkind  enough  to 
suspect  that  McDermott's  vision,  and  all  therewith 
connected,  were  brought  about  in  consequence  of  his 
lady  love  having  taken  it  into  her  head  to  evade  the 
discipline  of  a  crusty  old  father  by  flinging  herself 
into  his  horse-pond.  We  mention  the  last  in  prefer 
ence  to  any  other  place  that  might  answer  a  love- 


164  NOTES. 

lorn  damsel  equally  well  under  similar  circumstances, 
as  it  reminds  us  of  a  little  matter  that  we  remember 
to  have  once  occurred,  and  which,  no  matter  how 
irrevelent  it  may  be  to  the  present  purpose,  we  will 
here  relate.  A  certain  inn-keeper's  daughter  fell 
deeply  in  love  with  her  father's  hostler ;  Boniface, 
however,  being  as  hard  in  the  heart  as  a  winter  cab 
bage,  not  only  refused  his  consent,  but  locked  my  lady 
up  in  the  garret,  and  kicked  my  gentleman  out  of  the 
door.  In  a  few  days  afterwards  Miss  was  released  ; 
but  taking  the  loss  of  her  Knight  of  the  curry-comb 
in  high  dudgeon,  the  very  first  use  she  made  of  her 
liberty  was  to  run  into  a  field,  and  tumble  herself 
heels  over  head  into  a  horse-pond.  Here,  for  the 
sake  of  love  and  poetry,  we  would  wish  to  leave  her; 
but  not  so  ;  it  was  in  November,  and  the  water  was 
as  cold  as  ice,  so,  the  young  lady  was  scarcely 
drowned  above  a  second  and  a  half,  when,  finding 
that  no  person  seemed  inclined  to  wet  his  jacket  to 
save  her,  she  deliberately  got  up  and  went  home 
again  ;  and  that  very  evening  we  saw  her  in  the 
parlour,  singing  "Love's  Young  Dream,"  and  mend 
ing  a  hole  in  the  heel  of  her  stocking.] 

8,  p.  14,  line  20.  —  "  He  presented  the  volume." 
[This  is  the  only  event  we  can  remember  of  a  book 
having  been  presented ;  however,  rings  and  amulets 
were  often  received  under  similar  circumstances. 
Being  for  a  time  a  resident  of  the  village  of  Fede- 
raore,  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  an  old  woman  of  the 
place  showed  us  an  amethyst  heart,  which  she  affirm 
ed  was  the  gift  of  a  beautiful  mern  (mermaid)  to  her 
son,  about  ten  years  before.  The  young  man,  it  ap 
peared,  was  missing  a  short  time  after,  having,  as  was 
supposed,  followed  a  recruiting  party  that  had  lately 
been  beating  up  through  the  town  ;  but  nothing 
could  persuade  the  poor  old  lady  but  that  he  was 
living  with  the  water-nymph,  at  the  bottom  of 
Laughnapystha.  To  follow  up  the  story,  she  de 
clared  that  the  amethyst  had  the  gift  of  stopping 
blood.  Having  one  day  received  rather  an  awk- 


NOTES.  163 

ward  cut,  while  in  quest  of  a  rabbit,  and  being  anx 
ious  to  prove  the  miraculous  quality  of  the  stone,  we 
ran  to  Mrs.  Delany's,  and,  dear  reader,  you  may 
laugh  as  you  will  —  but  upon  our  soul,  we  had 
hardly  clutched  it  in  the  palm  of  our  hand,  and  re 
ceived  the  old  lady's  benediction,  when  the  blood 
stopped,  and  the  wound  was  perfectly  healed  on  the 
third  day  after.] 

10.  p.  15.  line  16.—"  Better  to  be  sure,— far  better 
the  labor  of  that  dark-eyed  minstrel  of  tne  water,  in 
its  own  native  strength,  than  after  being  modelled  to 
suit  the  whims,  and  fancies,  of  a  more  gro 
velling  genius."  [We  suspect  (however  McDermott 
may  be  accused  of  having  bounced  at  times)  that  he 
tells  nothing  but  the  truth  here.  We,  ourself  have 
known  of  a  great  many  effusions  (both  prose  and  poet 
ry)  that  were  spoiled  in  the  improvement.  On  one 
occasion,  a  certain  editor,  a  friend  of  ours,  received 
anonymously  a  copy  of  beautiful  stanzas,  which 
he  succeeded  in  embellishing  to  such  a  degree,  that 
any  person  who  had  the  felicity  of  reading  them, 
as  they  were  printed,  might  very  conscientiously 
have  set  down  the  poor  devil  of  an  author  as  a  fool. 
As  an  instance,  a  part  of  the  poem  ran  thus : 

"  His  rival  neared,  and  poised  his  javelin  true, 
Quick  for  its  victim's  heart  the  weapon  sped, 

He  reeled  before  her —  murmured,  "  Love,  adieu  !" 
One  gasp  —  one  sigh  —  Oh,  God !  is  Henry  dead  1" 

The  unpoetical  scoundrel  actually  marked  out 
these  lines,  and  after  rubbing  his  temples  for  two 
hours  and  a  half,  and  wasting  a  couple  of  sheets  of 
congenial  foolscap,  perpetrated  and  interlined  the  fol 
lowing,  by  way  of  improvement  : 

"  He  took  an  arrow  from  his  quiver, 
And  fired  it  at  his  youthful  rival's  heart ; 

Says  he,  '  Dear  girl,  a  last  °;ood  bye  forever; 
For  I,  alas  !  am  going  to  depart."  ' ! ! !] 


166  NOTES. 

11,  p.  16,  line  1. —  "It  cannot  find  readers,  even 
in  Irishmen,3'  &c.  [This  is  but  too  literally  correct; 
and  hence  the  reason  that  the  Irish  language,  which 
in  its  purity  is  as  soft  and  musical  as  the  Italian,  and 
far  more  expressive,  is  nothing  better  than  a  congre 
gation  of  bastard  sounds,  which  fall  with  a  ludicrous 
effect  even  on  the  ears  of  an  Irishman  himself. — 
People  have  no  more  right  to  confound  the  Irish  lan 
guage  with  the  ochs  and  arrahs  which  they  hear 
daily,  than  they  have  to  mistake  that  most  abomi 
nable  of  all  dialects,  the  guttural  sputterings  of  the 
Lancashire  boor,  for  genuine  English.  | 

11,  p.  16,  line  26,  &c.  —  Murphy  had  often  watch 
ed  him,"  &c.  [Whether  McDermott  wrote  the  tale, 
and  through  some  unaccountable  vacuum  in  his  me 
mory  forgot  it  again,  or  not,  we  shall  not  pretend  to 
decide;  but  had  he  even  done  so,  his  malady  would 
not  have  been  without  a  precedent;  for  Becker  re 
lates  a  story  of  a  certain  doctor  in  Germany,  who 
wrote  a  treatise  on  physic,  and  after  having  had  it  in 
his  possession  for  several  years,  swore  before  a  ma 
gistrate  that  it  was  given  him  by  an  angel.  As  the 
work,  however,  was  exceedingly  stupid,  some  people 
were  hardy  enough  to  doubt  the  divinity  of  iis  origin  ; 
but  still,  though  the  writing  was  notoriously  his  own, 
the  poor  man  could  never  be  persuaded,  till  the  day 
of  his  death,  that  he  had  not  received  it  in  propria 
persona,  from,  the  shade  of  .ZEsculapius.] 

13,  p.  17,  line  21.  —  "  Ossian  could  have  done  no 
more."  [All  the  world  knows  that  McPherson  was 
a  bonny  Scott  and  that  he  has  tried  to  claim  Os 
sian  as  a  countryman.  Now  McPherson  knew  bet 
ter  ;  for  he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  his  sub 
ject  to  have  made  any  thing,  unless  a  wilful  mistake. 
The  poetry  of  Ossian  is  all  Irish;  decidedly  so,  and 
exclusively  so  ;  his  song  is  the  very  language  that 
the  unlettered  Irishman  makes  use  of  in  his  every 
day  discourse :  full  of  figure  —  full  of  metaphor — > 
and  occasionally  full  of  rigmarole.  In  all  parts  of 


NOTES.  167 

Munster  and  Connaught,    you  can   find   men    that 
never  heard  of  Ossian,  and  yet  who  write  verses  to 
the  same  measure,  and  sometimes  equally  as  good  ; 
and   we    have  often  had  the  fortune,   in  our   pere 
grinations  through  the  wilder  districts  of  Munster, 
to  hear  old  women,  who  never  learned  to  read  or 
write    in    their  lives,  extemporizing  stanzas  in  the 
same  strain,  and  as  full  of  pathos  and  sublimity  as 
those  of  the  warrior  bard  himself;  and  singing  them 
too,  to  airs  of  such  melancholy  sweetness,  that  me 
mory  dwells  with  rapture    on  the  divinely   sorrow 
ful  sensations  they   occasioned.       We  would   ask, 
where  will  you  find  such  things  in  Scotland  ?    Not 
from  Berwick  on  Tweed  to  John  O'Groat's.     How 
ever,  she  has  a   greater  boast  —  that   of   McPher- 
son    himself;     who    has   given    a    dignity    to    the 
poem,  which,  without  his  master  hand,  it  could  ne 
ver  have   possessed,   and   who  has  saved  the  effu 
sions  of  the  son  of  Fingal  (to   use  one  of  his  own 
similes)  from  u  fading  away  like  the  morning  mist 
from  the  hills  of  Ravaron."] 

14,  p.   18,  line  26,   &c.  —  "  It  is  not  for  nothing 
the  cat  broke  the  looking-glass  last  week ;  and  has  n't 
the  death-watch  been   ticking  all  about  the   house 
ever  since  the  night  that  Molly   Rooney,  the  lucky 
woman,  saw  poor  Mac's  fetch,  with  a  short  candle  in 
its   hand,  jumping  into  the  pool  of  water."    [The 
breaking  of  a   looking-glass  is  considered  very  omi 
nous  of  evil ;  but  if  poor  Puss  is  the  perpetrator,  it  is 
the  devil  entirely ;  for  cats  are  held  in  particular  ab 
horrence  by  the  superstitious.      A  lucky  woman  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  witch;  one  of  the  harm 
less  sort,  however,  whose  chief  business  is  to   cure 
warts,  paralytic  strokes,  eye-pearls,  and  in  short,  all 
the  diseases  that  are  beyond  the  skill  of  the  legitimate 
physician.     They  are  also  said  to  possess  the  faculty 
of  double  sight ;  that  is,  the  power  of  seeing  visions. 
A  fetch  is  the  "doubleman,"  or  counterpart  of  the 
original.     They  are  never  seen  but  with  candles  in 
their  hand,  the  length  of  which  is  supposed  to  foretel 


168  NOTES. 

the  relative  periods  of  existence  of  the  persons  they 
represent.     Many  stories  are  told  of  people  who  have 
seen  their  own  fetches.      The  following  may  be  re 
lied  on,  as  a  fact:     Mr.  John   Steel,   of  the   city  of 
Dublin,  was  one  night  lying  on  a  sopha  in  his  par 
lor,  perfectly  awake,  and  close  to  a  candle  that  was 
burning  on  the  table,  when  a  figure  entered  the  apart 
ment,  holding  a  taper  which  was  burning  to  the  sock 
et,  in  his  hand.      He  approached  the  couch,  bending 
his  eyes  most  intently  upon  Mr.  Steel,  and  that  gen 
tleman  now  perceived,  with  the  utmost  consternation, 
that  the  figure  before  him,  in  face  and  person,  was 
the  exact  counterpart  of  himself.      Having  remained 
about  three  minutes,  it  withdrew,  not  in  the  manner 
of  spirits,  but  with  a  slow  and  solemn,  though  noise 
less  step,  and  by  a  door  which   stood  in  a   different 
direction  from  that  through  which  he  had  entered. 
Dr.  Brewster,  in  his   letters  to  Scott,  has  explained 
the  cause  of  appearances  similar  to  the  present,  and 
interlined   them  with    many  very  wonderful  anec 
dotes  ;  however,  in  no  instance  that  we  remember, 
has  he  spoken  of  persons  who  were  favored  with 
visits  from  their  second   selves.     What  makes  the 
story  of  Mr.  Steel  the  more  remarkable,  is  the  me 
lancholy  fact,  that  a  few  days  after  he  had  seen  the 
prophetic  vision,  he  was  a  corpse.] 

15.  p.  20,  line  30,  &c.  —  "  In  an  instant  she  was 
out  of  sight,  and  the  terror-stricken  publican  and  his 
wife  closed  the  door  under  the  firm  conviction  that 
they  had  seen  a  banshee."  [The  banshee  is  a  death- 
spirit,  particularly  Irish.  It  is  supposed  that  there  is 
one  connected  with  each  of  the  families  of  the  old 
Milisian  race,  who,  on  the  decease,  or  the  approach 
ing  decease  of  any  of  the  members  thereof,  may  be 
seen  in  the  vicinity  of  the  house,  wringing  her  hands 
and  weeping  bitterly.  The  terms  of  their  own  exist 
ence,  it  is  presumed,  is  connected  with  that  of  the 
families  to  which  they  are  severally  attached,  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott  has  evidently  taken  the  idea  of  his 
"  White  lady  of  Avenel"  from  the  Irish  banshee.  By 


NOTES.  169 

the  way,  it  is  to  be  lamented  that  Sir  Walter  never 
took  an  Irish  subject,  especially    for  his  muse;    no 
man  could  have  done  it  so  much  justice,  for  his  style 
was  perfectly  adapted  to  the  glory  of  the  ancient  days 
of  Erin  ;  besides,  in  such  a  case  he  would  have  beea 
able  to  have  made  his  knights  and  dames,  ladies  and 
gentlemen;  that  is,  given  them  the  advantage  of  an 
education;  for,  whatever  may  be  said  of  their  brogue 
and    their   blarney,   we    do  not  remember    having 
read  of  any  of  the  elite  of  the  western  isle,  who  could 
neither  read  or  write  their  own  names.  While  speak 
ing  of  this  beautiful  poet,  we   would  fain  pay  some 
tribute  to  his  genius, — we    would   fain   declare   our 
gratitude  for  the  many  hours  of  rapture  we  have   de 
rived  from  the  perusal  of  his  wonderful  productions. 
His  poetry  has  certainly  neither  the  power  and  sub 
limity  of  Byron's,  or  the  wit  and  brilliancy  of  Moore's ; 
but  there  is  such  an  indescribable  charm  in  the  har 
mony  of  its  flow, — such  aperfect  keeping  in  the  simi 
les  and   circumstances  —  such  purity  of  sentiment, 
and  withal  the  colorings,  are  so  chaste  and  palpable, 
that,  while  we  are  far  from  deeming  him  one  of  the 
greatest  of  poets,  it  is   our  decided   opinion,    and 
we  presume  the  opinion  of  the  majority  of  English 
readers,  that  the    most  pleasing  one  to  which  the 
world  has  ever  given  birth,  was  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

15,  p,  22,  line  7.  —  "  O  for  the  spur  of  Fin  Mal- 
lin."  [Fin  Mallin  was  a  sort  of  Jack  the  Giant  Kil 
ler.  One  day,  while  riding  alon^  the  banks  of  the 
Shannon,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Killaloo.  he  was 
attacked  by  a  host  of  magicians  and  ogres ;  when, 
seeing  no  hope  from  resistance,  he  turned  his  horse's 
head  towards  the  river,  gave  one  furious  dig  with 
his  rowels,  and  fairly  jumped  across,  a  distance  of 
nearly  three  miles.  The  impression  of  his  horse's 
hoofs  are  to  be  seen  in  a  mountain  on  the  banks  of  the 
Shannon,  to  this  very  day.] 

16,  p.  22,  line  52.  —  "  Thus,  dearest,  I   am  thine 
for  ever."  [The  printer  has  left  out  the  7,  which  was 
o. 


170  NOTES. 

most  especially  wanted,  and  that  is  all  we  have   to 
say  about  it '  ] 

17,  p.  22,  line  27.  —  "  It  did  not  appear  to  sink, 
or  to  resolve,  but.  as  it  were,  instantly  to  become 
nothing."  [This,  we  presume,  will  be  considered  as 
a  bull ;  however,  there  have  been  many  writers,  and 
they  not  Irishmen  either,  who  have  been  obliged  to 
give  force  to  their  ideas,  by  now  and  then  going  a 
little  beyond  the  mark.  Scott  breaks  a  steel  helmet 
like  a  hazel  nut ;  and  we  have  had  fifty  poets  who 
have  filled  the  heavens,  on  different  occasions,  with 
the  blast  of  a  warder's  horn.] 


to  eamo  ffi vat. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  FIRST. 


Note  1,  page  28,  line  14. 
11  Behold  the  eagle's  nest." 

The  Eagle's  Nest  is  the  most  interesting,  and  one 
of  the  loftiest  mountains  of  the  lakes.  On  the  sum 
mit  the  eagle  has  built  his  nest  for  ages,  the  serenity 
of  his  reign  being  undisturbed  by  the  hand  of  the 
prowler,  and,  for  the  very  best  reason  in  the  world 
too — it  is  beyond  his  reach.  Besides  the 
sublimity  of  its  appearance,  this  hill  is  supposed  to 
possess  one  of  the  most  powerful  echoes  in  the 
world. 


Note  2,  page  28,  line  15. 

"  Or  lay  me  by  thy  wild  cascade, 
O  Sullivan!" 

For  a  description  of  this  beautiful   waterfall,   see 
-Wright's  Tour  to  the  lakes." 


Note  3,  page  29,  line  13. 
::  Where  shall  I  find  thy  mate,  Lough  Lane  T 

;t  Lough  Lane,  or  Laune,  is  the  ancient  and  most 
proper  name  of  the  lakes  of  Killarney." 
Q* 


174  NOTES. 

Note  4,  page  41,  lines  22  &  23, 

"  For  O !  it  seemed  a  thing  of  air, 
Not  built,  but  raised  by  magi  there." 

Palaces  and  gardens,  such  as  the  one  here  described, 
are  often  met  with  in  the  neigborhood  of  those  lakes, 
which  are  supposed  to  be  inhabited.  The  wanderer 
has  frequently  discovered  bowers  and  brooks,  flowers 
and  fountains,  occupying  a  spot  which,  when  he  last 
saw  it,  was  perchance  nothing  but  a  moss  bank,  or  a 
desert.  A  gentleman  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  how 
ever,  proved  to  us  by  the  most  invincible  arguments, 
that  those  appearances  were  merely  the  reflections  of 
objects  that  actually  existed  at  the  bottom  of  the  tide, 
which  were  forced  upwards  upon  the  vision,  either 
by  the  refraction  of  rays  when  the  sun  was  in  a  cer 
tain  quarter,  or  through  some  mystical  influence  of 
the  people  of  the  deep  themselves.  He  was  led  to 
this  conclusion  by  the  following  singular  fact  —  at 
least,  he  told  it  to  us  as  one,  backing  his  word  the 
while,  by  several  very  responsible  oaths ;  and  as  he 
was  one  of  those  gentlemen  who  are  ever  ready  to  en 
ter  the  lists  in  defence  of  their  veracity,  and  withal 
could  snuff  a  candle  at  twelve  yards  distance  with  a  pis 
tol  bullet,  we  thought  it  best  to  believe  him.  Upon 
a  certain  winter's  evening,  when  the  snow  was  six 
inches  deep  in  any  direction  within  the  horizon,  as 
he  was  sauntering  along  the  banks  of  Lough  Neagh, 
he  perceived  some  very  brilliant  objects  emerging 
from  the  waters  before  him.  For  an  instant  he  re 
lieved  his  vision  with  the  shade  of  his  hand  ;  but 
when  he  looked  again,  lo  !  he  was  in  the  vicinity  of 
a  palace  and  garden  of  the  most  inconceivable  splen 
dor.  Those  he  described  so  minutely,  and  with 
such  earnestness,  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
doubt  his  tale  ;  on  the  birds  and  flowers  he  was 
most  eloquent,  as  there  were  numbers  of  each  which 
he  had  ever  deemed  to  be  strangers  to  a  European 
clime:  humming-birds,  for  instance,  were  more  nu 
merous  than  he  had  ever  seen  butterflies  in  a  nursery. 
He  had  been  taking  notes  of  observation  for  about 


NOTES.  175 

an  hour,  when,  of  a  sudden  the  sun  dipt  behind  a 
hill,  and  behold!  in  an  instant  all  were  gone;  for 
now,  instead  of  brooks  and  flowers,  birds  and  bowers, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  a  bank  of  frozen 
snow. 


Note  55  page  40,  line  19. 
"  Without  the  solace  even  of  crime." 

Some  people  may  be  inclined  to  doubt  the  efficacy 
of  such  solace,  and  perchance  to  edge  in  a  word  or 
two  about  the  pleasures  of  suffering  innocence.  If 
so,  in  the  name  of  the  poet,  we  beg  leave  to  differ 
with  them  ;  for,  in  spite  of  all  that  may  be  said  of  the 
horrors  of  a  guilty  conscience,  and  so  forth,  we 
dare  say  (ay,  and  swear  it  too)  that  there  is  far 
more  consolation  in  the  idea  that  we  are  suffering, 
or  about  to  suffer,  for  the  crimes  we  have  com 
mitted,  than  for  those  which  we  know  nothing 
about. 


Note  6,  page  41,  lines  3  &  4. 

{;  Dare  I  unbreast  the  mystery, 

That  which  I  am —  what  he  might  be  V 

To  a  full  comprehension  of  the  poem,  it  is  ne 
cessary  that  the  reader  should  be  made  acquainted 
with  the  attributes  of  the  being  who  has  spoken 
thus.  She  was  of  a  race  who  (as  we  before  ob 
served)  though  endowed  with  immortality,  are  sub 
ject  to  the  influence  of  all  the  passions,  yea,  even  to 
a  greater  extent  than  beings  of  a  briefer  period ;  for, 
as  their  perceptions  are  of  a  much  higher  order,  they 
are  accessible  to  deeper  impressions.  The  inhabit 
ants  of  the  lakes  of  Ireland,  and  the  oriental  people 
of  the  sea,  are  evidently  creatures  of  the  same  grade, 
differing  only  in  a  few  points,  which,  so  far  as  we  are 
concerned,  are  in  favor  of  the  former ;  for,  while  it  is 
the  province  of  the  one  to  confer  benefits,  the  other  is 
considered  as  rather  the  enemy,  than  the  friend,  of 


176  NOTES. 

man.  Neither  can  be  esteemed  as  supernatural; 
their  properties,  habits,  and  manners,  differi  ig  very 
little  from  those  of  the  human  family  ;  nay,  it  is  the 
general  opinion  of  those  who  are  conversant  in  such 
matters,  that  they  themselves  are  of  the  race  of 
Adam,  though,  for  some  reason  with  which  we  are 
unacquainted,  they  have  escaped  the  general  curse^ 
being  neither  doomed  to  earn  their  bread  by  the 
sweat  of  the  brow,  or  to  take  up  their  habitation  with 
the  worm.  They  are  also  partially  debarred  from 
holding  any  direct  intercourse  with  us,  of  the  more 
exposed  and  ruder  portions  of  the  universe,  though 
such  events  are  often  known  to  occur.  O'Dwyer 
thus  describes  their  natures  and  penalties  :  "  The 
people  of  the  deep,  or  more  properly  speaking,  those 
who  through  the  water  pass  to  and  from  their  habita 
tions  are  in  the  scale  of  beings  of  a  much  higher  order 
than  fleeting  man,  their  forms  and  beauties  more  fault 
less —  their  powers  and  perceptions  less  limited  — 
and  their  ideas  more  capable  of  compassing  happi 
ness.  They  are  still,  however,  fallible  creatures,  lia 
ble  to  the  commission  of  crime,  and  also  to  its  at 
tendant  punishment.  Like  man  too,  they  bow  the 
knee  to  the  first  great  cause,  and  live  in  the  certain 
belief  of  a  last  change,  when  every  one  shall  be 
numbered  in  his  lot.  They  are  forbidden,  under  the 
most  fearful  penalties,  to  make  known  the  mysteries 
of  their  natures ;  however,  they  are  permitted  by  in 
direct  signs,  and  dark  allusions,  to  excite  the  wonder 
of  those  whom  they  wish  to  translate  to  tneir  abodes 
of  bliss  ;  and  if  at  such  time  the  clue  be  taken,  and 
acted  on,  the  favored  individual  undergoes  a  palpable 
change  of  nature  in  his  descent,  and  becomes  as  one 
of  those,  the  mysteries  of  whose  being  he  has  dared 
to  unravel. 


Note  7,  page  42,  line  1. 
"  He  robes  him  in  a  hoary  haze." 
Spirits  are  often  said   to   descend  in  mists ;  still 


NOTES.  177 

should  any  objection  be  made,  we  must  only  kiss  the 
rod ;  at  the  same  time  however,  begging  leave  to  re 
mind  the  reader  that  a  spirit  would  make  a  far  more 
respectable  appearance  in  the  shape  of  a  mountain 
hoar,  than  did  the  ghost  of  the  father  of  one  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  characters,  when  he  embraced  the 
lady  of  the  lime  kiln  in  the  shape  of  a  cloud  of  ashes  ! 


Note  8,  page  43,  line  23. 
"  Hail  to  the  chief  O'Donohoe!" 

As  O'Donohoe,  the  monarch  of  the  lake,  is  mas 
ter  of  the  destinies  of  his  people,  and  according  to  Mr. 
Ferguson  (who  says  he  foretold  the  resurrection  of 
the  freedom  of  Erin)  known  to  possess  the  powers  of 
divination,  the  young  lady  very  naturally  thought 
that  he  was  the  most  proper  person  to  apply  to  in  her 
present  dilemma. 


Note  9,  page  50,  line  17. 

"  And  the  songs  of  the  nightingales,  low  on  their  boughs, 
As  they  woo  rhe  young  roses,  and  warble  their  vows." 

The  poet  deserves  a  very  severe  stricture  for  intro 
ducing  the  above  beautiful  figure,  it  having  been 
used  by  five  hundred  thousand  different  poets  alrea 
dy.  However,  as  the  mighty  Byron,  and  the  silver- 
tongued  Anacreon  are  among  the  number,  the  hum 
ble  author  of  Lord  Nial  may  hope  to  be  forgiven. 


3iote0  to  eawto  SecowZr, 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  SECOND. 


Note  1,  page  53.  line  1. 
"  Why  sleeps  my  Mary  1" 

It  may  be  said  that  Mary  is  a  strange  sort  of  an 
every   day  name   for   a  water-nymph,  —  that   Titi- 
nia,  or  Clarissa,  or  Zaphyra,  &c.  would  have  an 
swered  much  better.     This  we  deny.     If  Mary  is  the 
most  general  name  in  the  world,  it  is  because  it  ia 
the   most  beautiful  —  (there  is   no  flower  so  com 
mon  a?  the   rose)  —  and  so.   we  will  venture    to 
say  it  is  in  great  request  among  the  k' ladies  of  the 
lake."     There  is  a  witchery  about  it  that  is  altoge 
ther  its  own.      It  is,  in  fact,  a  volume   of  beautiful 
poetry  in  itself.     Call  a  queen  Mary,  and  you  add 
dignity  to  her  rank  —  Mary  of   Scotland  owes  half 
her  immortality  to  her  name ;  and   who  can  read   a 
ballad  about  the  fair  maid  Mary  milking  her  brindle 
cow  at  a   cottage  door,  and  not  feel  a  palpitation  at 
his    heart,  and   a  wish  that   he  was    destined    to 
be  the  happy  man  that   was  to  coax  her  away  from 
her  father  and  mother?     We  would  particularly  ad 
vise  all  mammas  to  call,  at  least,  one  of  their  daughters 
Mary  ;  should  nature  prove  unkind,  they  will  find  it 
of  infinite  service  ;  we  have  never  had  the  pleasure 
of  knowing  a  lady  of  the  name  that  had  not  twenty- 
beaux  at  her  apron  strings  :  and  it  is  equally  certain, 
that  we  never  heard  of  a  Ah'ss  Mary,  in  the  sere  and 
yellow,  in  the  course  ci  ijr  life. 
R 


18*  NOTES. 

Note  2,  page  54,  line  14. 
"  A  wooing,  wandeiing  Red  Branch  Knight." 

There  were  several  orders  of  knighthood  in  Ireland 
*»ven  anterior  to  the  time  of  Saint  Patrick;  that  of 
the  "Red  Branch"  was  the  most  distinguished.  It 
was  a  complete  counterpart  of  the  "Round  Table," 
every  member  of  it  being  ready  on  all  occasions,  to 
venture  single  handed  against  a  million,  in  support 
of  their  individual  lady  love's  claims,  to  be  the 
most  beautiful,  and  accomplished  Princess  in  the 
whole  world.  The  chief  distinction  between  the  he 
roes  of  King  Arthur,  and  those  of  the  Red  Branch, 
was  this ;  that  while  the  former  conquered  few  but 
invisible  enemies,  and  besieged  none  but  castles  in 
the  air,  the  latter  won  a  deserved  immortality  (though 
it  is  somewhat  obscured  by  the  mean  destruction  of 
the  annals  of  their  country  for  political  purposes) 
by  the  glory  of  their  exploits  on  the  continent  of 
Europe. 

Note  3.  page  55,  lines  24,  &c. 

"  Camp,  treasure,  all  were  left  in  scorn, 
But  not  the  little  battle  born." 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  Irish  were  bat 
too  fond  of  quarrelling  among  themselves  in  all  pe 
riods  of  their  history ;  the  almost  infinite  number  of 
their  petty  princes  was,  perhaps,  the  chief  occasion  of 
the  frequency  of  civil  warfare.  This  great  fail 
ing  became  hereditary,  and  has  descended  from  fa 
ther  to  son,  down  to  the  present  generation.  It  makes 
them  the  easiest  prey  imaginable ;  for  when  it  is 
thought  that  they  are  on  too  good  terms  together  for 
the  safety  of  a  political  enemy,  all  that  that  enemy 
has  to  do,  is  to  set  them  at  logerheads  touching 
the  supremacy  of  their  different  creeds,  and  lo! 
they  fall  to,  and  beat  each  other  with  such  a 
hearty  good  will,  that  they  have  no  time,  nor 
inclination  to  take  notice  of  a  third  party,  who  is  all 


NOTES.  183 

the  while  very  busy  in  laughing  at  them  both.  Had  it 
not  been  for  this  peculiarity,  Henry  the  Second 
would  never  have  planted  a  foot  in  Ireland,  or  at 
least,  having  planted  it  there,  he  would  never  have 
taken  it  off  again  ;  the  shamrock  would  never  have 
been  quartered  with  the  rose  — and  Irishmen  would 
not  have  been  sneered  at  all  over  the  world,  because 
it  was  discovered  that  they  were  not  altogether  very 
accurate  pronouncing  dictionaries  of  a  foreign  lan 
guage. 


Note  4,  page  56,  line  13. 
"  The  base  McDonough's  awful  crime." 

It  was  McDonough  (or  as  it  should  have  been  written 
McMorrough,^  that  brought  about  the  invasion  of  Ire 
land  by  Henry  the  second.  The  incidents  of  the 
aifair  are  highly  dramatic;  and  as  is  usual  in  all 
matters  of  importance,  from  the  creation  of  Adam 
downwards,  the  plot  of  the  story  is  set  in  motion  by 
a  woman.  The  main  points  are  as  follows  — 
O'Rorke,  Prince  of»Brefni,  goes  on  a  tour  of  pilgrim 
age  to  Saint  Patrick's  purgatory,  leaving  his  wife, 
Dervorguile  behind  him  to  take  care  of  the  house ; 
meanwhile  down  comes  McMorrough,  King  of  Lien- 
ster,  who  was  an  old  flame  of  the  lady's  previous  to 
liar  marriage,  and  prevails  on  her  to  run  away  with 
him  to  Dublin.  O'Rouke  returns  —  misses  his  wife 
and  applies  to  Roderick  O'Connor,  monarch  of  all  Ire 
land,  for  redress.  Roderick,  in  behalf  of  his  vassal, 
iavades  Lienster.  while  McMorrough,  being  unable 
to  cope  with  his  adversaries,  sets  off  to  England,  and 
from  thence  to  Britany  in  France,  and  makes  his  af 
fairs  known  to  the  second  Harry  of  England,  who 
was  there  at  the  time.  Harry  (who  is  delighted  with 
the  intelligence,  as  he  had  been  a  longtime  throwing 
a  hankering  eye  at  the  land  of  Shelelah)  gives  him 
his  royal  permission  to  beat  up  for  volunteers.  This 
he  finds  a  very  thriving  employment,  as  bread  and 
beef  were  at  the  time,  among  the  very  rarest 


184  NOTES. 

commodities  of  the  English  market ;  and  so,  having 
mustered,  as  he  thinks,  a  sufficient  number  of  recruits 
for  his  purpose,  he  embarks  them  for  Ireland.  The 
invaders,  however,  are  defeated,  but  Roderick  O'Con- 
ner  instead  of  hanging  McMurrough,  and  sending 
his  tag,  rag,  and  bobtail  back  again,  absolutely  re 
stores  the  one,  to  his  former  dignities,  and  allows  the 
others  to  remain  on  the  Island,  and  to  become  the 
sole  residents  of  a  city  in  the  Province  of  Leinster. 
From  this  period  treason  is  hatched  apace,  Henry 
and  McMurrough  being  at  the  top  and  bottom  of  it, 
—  bribery  and  corruption  undermine  the  bulwarks  of 
the  kingdom  —  Roderick  becomes  alarmed,  but  too 
late — the  King  of  England  arrives,  and  then  all  is 
blood,  murder,  anarchy,  and  confusion,  to  the  end.  — 
There  is  a  stiking  resemblance  between  the  loves  of 
McMorrough  and  Dervorguile,  and  that  of  Paris  and 
Helen.  The  Irishman,  however,  has  an  advantage 
over  the  Trojan,  for  while  one,  though  an  infamous 
traitor,  is  a  very  good  soldier  ;  the  other,  according  to 
Homer,  seems  fit  for  nothing  on  the  face  of  God's 
earth,  but  a  lady's  physician,  or  a  man  milliner. 


Note  5,  page  58,  line  21. 

"  Then  grant,  Most  Highest, 
From  thine  holy  throne/' 

Should  the  reader  be  inclined  to  take  exception  to 
this  little  hymn,  as  breathing  sentiments  not  in  ac 
cordance  with  those  of  discontented  Knights  and 
moss  troopers,  we  would  beg  leave  to  remind  him 
that  his  religious  duties  were  considered  paramount 
to  all  others  by  the  Irish  soldier  of  the  olden  time.  — 
Should  they  follow  up  the  objection,  and  say,  that  it 
was  unnatural  for  men  to  call  so  solemnly  on  the 
Almighty  to  aid  them  in  their  work  of  vengeance, 
we  would  reply  in  their  defence,  that  they  were  still 
iomething  better  than  the  Scotch  borderers,  who  ne 
ver  went  on  a  "forray,"  that  is,  to  pillage  their 


NOTES.  185 

neighbors'  goods,  and  set  fire  to  their  houses,  without 
first  saying,  "  Every  man  his  pater-noster."  If  we 
quote  aright,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  while  speaking  of 
Sir  William  of  Deloraine,  alludes  to  this  fact  in  the 
following  doggerels  : 

"  Prayer  knew  he  never  a  one, 
Unless  to  patter  an  Ave  Mary, 
While  riding  on  a  border  forray." 


Note  6,  page  85,  line  21. 

"  Such  pangs  as  rack  the  struggling  eel, 
Not  even  the  lion  flayed  can  feel.1' 

This  is  a  well  known  truth ;  no  animal  can  suffer 
as  much  torment  by  being  stripped  of  its  skin,  as 
those  of  the  serpent  form  ;  inasmuch  as  their  life 
runs  equally  in  every  part.  This  last  argumentis  easily 
proved  ;  for  if  you  separate  any  portion  of  a  quadru 
ped  from  the  leading  member,  it  almost  immediately 
loses  the  sense  of  feeling,  while  the  smallest  divid 
ed  particle  of  the  eel,  or  serpent,  will  linger  in  it« 
misery  for  hours. 


Note  7.  page  86,  line  10. 

"  The  suffering  limb  would  take  a  part 
"  Of  suffering  from  the  tortured  heart." 

Should  any  man  be  so  dull  as  not  to  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  this,  we  will  put  him  in  the  way  of 
finding  it  out  to  a  hair.  Whenever  he  has  a  violent 
tooth-ache,  let  him  immediately  put  his  finger  into 
the  fire,  and  then,  according  as  the  pangs  of  the  fin 
ger  increase,  he  will  discover  that  there  is  a  corres 
ponding  decline  of  pain  in  the  affected  gum.  Should 
he  be  so  unfortunate  as  not  to  have  an  aching  tooth, 
at  the  time,  whereby  to  prove  it,  all  he  has  to  do  in 
the  world,  is  to  prick  himself  with  the  point  of  a  pen 
knife  in  one  arm,  until  the  pain  becomes  exceedingly 
troublesome;  and  he  will  then  find  that  the  already- 
wounded  arm  will  receive  great  benefit  by  his  inflict 
ing  an  equal  punishment  on  the  other. 


to  eanto 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  THIRD. 

Note  1,  page  95.  line  11. 
1:  They  were  not  of  the  lowly  kerne  " 

After  Henry  the  Second  had  established  himself  on 
the  throne  of  Ireland,  and  every  hope  of  independ 
ence  was  gone,  a  number  of  desperate,  and  patriotic 
gentlemen,  assembled  among  the  mountains  of  the 
south,  from  whence  they  often  made  successful  sal 
lies  on  the  invading  armies  less,  however,  for  the 
hope  of  victory,  than  for  the  pleasures  of  revenge. — 
A  celebrated  hero,  Lord  Fin,  or  Fin  Nial,  of  Kerry, 
a  lineal  descendant  of  Con,  of  the  hundred  fights, 
was  their  leader.  This  band  of  patriots  was  com 
pletely  destroyed  in  a  plain  adjacent  to  Mucross  lake, 
but  not  before  they  had  slain  more  than  ten  limes 
their  own  numbers,  of  the  enemy.  The  body  of 
Lord  Nial  could  never  be  discovered,  though  sought 
for  with  great  perseverance,  in  consequence  of  a  re 
ward  that  was  offered  for  his  head.  The  poem 
clears  up  the  mystery,  by  shewing  what  had  become 
of  him;  and  indeed,  leaving  every  other  induce 
ment  out  of  the  question,  he  was  likely  enough  to 
have  flung  himself  into  the  lake,  if  it  was  for  nothing 
more  than  to  save  himself  from  being  exhibited  on  a 
gibbet,  and  to  cheat  the  enemy  of  their  prize ;  at  all 
events,  Sir  William  Delamarck  was  actuated  by  such 
a  motive,  when  he  desired  Quentin  Durward's  uncle 
to  fling  his  head  into  the  river. 


190  NOTES 

Note  2,  page  97,  line  21. 
"  Else  through  the  gap  of  wild  Duriloe." 

This  gap.  or  chasm,  presents  a  most  glorious 
image  of  all  that  is  sublime  in  darkness  and  desola 
tion  ;  it  forms  a  very  interesting  feature  in  the  scene 
ry  about  the  lakes  of  Killarney,  and  will  repay  the 
tourist  with  interest,  for  the  three  days  that  it  is  ne 
cessary  he  should  take  in  its  examination.  A  gen 
tleman  once  remarked  that  as  the  way  to  happiness 
was  very  narrow  and  very  crooked,  the  gap  of  Dun- 
loe  could  be  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  high  road 
to  heaven. 


Note  3,  page  99,  line  1. 
"  Among  the  rocks  on  Glenna's  brow." 
Glenna  is  a  mountain  of  much  celebrity.     For  a 
description   of  it,  see    "  Smith's   Residence  at  the 
Lakes." 


Note  4,  page  103,  line  12. 
"Bold  Mac  Art  of  Swords." 


Swords  was  one  of  the  most  ancient  cities  in  Ireland, 
and  especially  famous  for  the  magnificence  of  its 
churches.  It  is  now  a  wretched  village,  and  with 
the  exception  of  one  or  two  singular  ruins,  cannot 
boast  of  even  the  wreck  of  its  former  greatness. — 
Mac  Art,  or  McArt,  was  a  scion  of  the  noble  family 
of  M'Carty.  His  desertion  of  his  country  was  attri 
buted  to  various  causes ;  some  said  that  it  was  to 
gratify  a  private  pique  that  he  had  entertained 
against  his  fellow  chieftains,  others  attributed  it  to  a 
more  potent  reason,  —  even  that  which  kept  Grou- 
chie  from  the  battle  of  Waterloo  —  English  gold.  On 
his  first  desertion  he  changed  his  name  from  McCarthy 
to  McArl,  and  finally  to  the  more  English  appella 
tion  of  Lodar.  The  soldiers  of  the  Irish  camp  nick 
named  him  "Lord  Weathercock." 


NOTES.  191 

Note  5,  page  103,  line  23. 
"  Two  warriosr  bear  him  from  the  floor." 

We  presume  that  it  is   to  be   inferred  from  the 
reading  of  the  poem  (for  the  author  has  chosen  to  be 
a  little  mysterious  about  it)  that  these  two  warriors 
were  neither  more,  or  less,  than  the  lady  of  the  lake 
and  her  JiLlette  de  chambre      Previous  to  the  encoun 
ter  of  the  two  armies,  Mac  Art  had  the  rebels,  as  they 
were  termed  by  the  invaders,  so  completely  surround 
ed,  that  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  have  escaped 
by  stealth,   and  their  chance  from    batfle    was  very- 
small  indeed  ;  as  the  enemy,  which  consisted  of  twen 
ty  times  their  number,    occupied   the  most  advanta 
geous  ground.     While  matters  were  in  this  s-ate,  the 
royal  army,  apparently  without  any  (at  least  reasona 
ble)  cause,   forsook   their  position,    and   encamped 
along  the  shores  of  Mucross.      Why    Mac  Art   had 
resigned  his  advantage,  remained  a    mystery,  until 
the  poem  of  Lord  Nial  threw  some  light  on  it.     We 
remember  to  have   heard  an   old  ballad,   in  which  it 
was  set  forth,   that  the  Phoka,  a  rather  disreputable 
order,  of  Irish  fairy,  having  bound  the  chieftain  to  a 
hawthorn  bush,  with  the   single  fillet   of  a  spider's 
web,  took   his  outward  form  from  midnight  till  sun 
rise,  and  in  that  disguise  assembled  the  besiegers,  and 
marched  them  from  the  hills.     The  account,  as  it  ap 
pears  in  the  poem,  however,  is  more  probable,  as  the 
ousiness  was  effected    without   the   assistance   of  a 
supernatural  agent  ;  and  besides,  the  exploit  was  not 
without  a   precedent.      When  Teague   O'Brien,  of 
Corofiu,  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  wanted  to  be  rid  of 
the  army  of   Murtagh,   prince   of  the   "Uesies,"  he- 
found  his  way  into  his  sleeping  chamber  one  night,  by 
means  of  bribing  the  sentinel ;  and  having  smothered 
him  as  he  lay  on  his  couch,  he  assumed  his  armor,-  or 
dered  an  assembly  of  the  troops,  and  under  cover  of 
the  night,  marched  them  away  to  a  distance  oi  twenty 
miles.     If  a  gentleman  would  do  so   much  for   the 
sake  of  security,  who  can  say  what  two  young  ladiei 
would  not  do,  for  the  sake  of  love. 


192  NOTES. 

Note  6,  page  106,  line  3. 
"  Erin's  nectar  pure." 

We  suppose  that  he  means  pure  Irish  whiskey  ; 
for  it  was  as  much  in  vogue  eight  or  nine  hundred 
years  ago,  as  it  is  at  the  present  day.  Indeed,  the 
date  of  its  invention,  like  that  of  the  foundation  of 
the  most  ancient  of  all  families,  the  Ap  Jenkins  of 
Wales,  appears  to  have  commenced  a  little  before  the 
beginning  of  time.  Previous  to  the  first  invasion  by 
the  Danes,  and  that  is  more  than  thirteen  hundred 
years  ago,  it  is  said  that  St.  Patrick's  well,  in  the 
south  of  Ireland,  was  a  spring  of  genuine  double  X. 
— However  this  may  be,  we  are  unqualified  to 
judge  ;  but  as  a  proof  of  its  virtues,  we  could  take  it 
on  our  death,  that  it  contains,  at  the  present  day, 
the  very  best  water  in  the  world  for  making  whiskey 
punch. 


Note  7,  page  111,  line  19. 
"  Who,  when  a  few  short  years  are  past, 
Shall  sink  into  their  lairs  at  last, 
Nor  leave  a  soul  to  soar." 

We  trust  that  these  lines  will  give  no  offence,  the 
more  so,  as  we  think  the  arguments  advanced  are 
not  only  reasonable,  but  infallible.  It  would  be  a 
sheer  insult  to  immortality  to  class  a  few  individu 
als  that  we  know  of  among  her  ranks;  ill-tempered 
narrow-hearted  blotches  on  humanity,  that,  fore  God  ! 
when  speaking  to  one  of  them  face  to  face,  for  half 
an  hour,  we  naturally  look  behind  for  a  tail  to  resolve 
the  mystery.  When  such  men  as  these  come  before 
us,  knowing  that  they  would  only  tend  to  make 
the  society  of  the  elect  unhappy,  and  not  wish 
ing  to  send  them,  even  in  idea,  any  where  else, 
for  the  sake  of  charity,  it  would  be  the  best  way  to 
suppose,  that  through  some  unaccountable  misma 
nagement  in  Nature,  they  were  sent  into  the  world 
without  the  incumbrance  of  souls  at  all. 


fiotesi  to  eanto 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  FOURTH. 


Note  1,  page  117,  line   16. 

"  The  sun  is  up,  the  lord  of  mom. 

And  comes  the  sense  from  whence  it  may, 
I  never  gazed  upon  his  horn"  — 

We  must  confess  our  ignorance  as  to  what  the 
author  means  by  the  horns  of  the  sun.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  it  would  have  put  himself  at  a  stand  to  explain. 
it,  unless  it  struck  him  that  as  gentlemen  were  more 
generally  blessed  with  such  incumbrances  than  la 
dies,  his  majesty  the  Sun  was  at  least  as  well  entitled 
to  them  as  her  most  chaste  of  majesties  the  silyer 
Moon,  who  is  well  known  to  have  worn  them  in  all 
ages  of  the  world.  If  this  is  not  a  sufficient  reason, 
we  must  even  debit  it  to  the  convenience  of  the 
rhyme  ;  for,  as  Byron  says, 

"  The  rhyme  obliges  me  to  this  ;  sometimes 
Kings  are  not  more  imperitive  than  rhymes." 


Note  2,  page  119,  line  4. 

"  The  soldier  knew  him  at  a  glance, 
And  faced  his  post,  and  lowered  his  lance." 

This  was  the  ancient  method  of  salute :  at  the 
present  day,  the  lance  or  firelock  is  carried  or  pre 
sented,  in  accordance  with  the  rank  of  the  officer 
who  receives  the  salute. 


1%  NOTES. 

Note  3,  page  120,  line  22. 

"  So  spoke  Sir  Percy  Hildebrand." 

Sir  Percy  was  a  Norman,  and  the  second  in  com 
mand  of  Lord  Lodar's  section  of  the  united  armies. 
He  is  represented  as  a  man  of  overruling  ambition — 
one,  indeed,  that  could  ill  brook  the  idea  of  a  supe 
rior,  and  who,  if  opportunity  served,  would  use  but 
little  ceremony  in  getting  rid  of  any  person  who 
might  stand  betwixt  him  and  the  pinnacle  on  his 


leaders  and  their  partizans,  who  had  previously  sepa 
rated,  were  fighting  among  themselves.  On  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  outlaws,  however,  they  again  united, 
and  both  Lodar  and  Sir  Percy  were  slain  by  Lord 
Nial,  in  the  ensuing  battle. 


Note  8,  page  121,  lines  22. 

"  On,  on  they  rushed,  that  noble  band, 
A  falchion  sheath  in  each  right  hand, 
Which,  as  they  neared  the  line  at  length, 
They  forward  flung,  with  headlong  strength." 

We  are  uncertain  whether  or  not  the  exploit  was 
original  with  the  troops  of  Lord  Nial ;  their  chief  de 
sign  was  to  show  that  they  never  again  intended  to 
sheath  their  weapons,  save  only  in  the  breasts  of  their 
enemies. 


Note  5,  page  123,  line  21. 

"  '  Make  ready,'  and  each  falchion  bright 
Flashed  upwards  like  a  line  of  light." 

tl  Prepare  to  charge,"  is  the  word  now  given  ; 
"Make  ready",  was  that  in  general  use  among  the  an 
cient  Europeans. 


NOTES.  197 

Note  6,  page  126,  line  24. 
"  By  Haco;s  head!  that  shout  again !" 

By  the  heads  of  Haco  and  Starchetar  (two  heroes 
of  great  antiquity)  were,  according  to  Keating,  com 
mon  oaths  among  the  Irish  before  the  invasion. 

Note  7,  page  129,  line  7. 

"  And  hark,  the  pivot  captain's  shout, 
'  Out,  markers,  by  the  centre  out.' 
Forth  speed  the  markers,  wheel  about, 
And  cover  in  a  row.  " 

Lines  of  battle  were  formed  in  the  days  of  Henry 
the  Second,  and  very  likely  in  those  of  Yong  Chung 
of  China,  who  lived.  Heaven  only  knows  how  many 
centuries  before  the  creation  of  Adam,  upon  very 
nearly  the  came  principle  as  they  are  at  pre 
sent.  That  is,  regiments  were  formed  into  many 
columns  of  nearly  equal  proportions,  and  when  the 
column  in  advance  had  come  to  the  place  appointed, 
those  in  the  rear  brought  up  their  right  or  left  shoul 
ders,  according  to  the  pivot  they  marched  by,  and 
wheeled  into  line  ;  markers  previously  running  out  to 
take  up  the  distance  of  each,  and  by  which  to  dress 
the  whole.  The  adjutant  of  the  present  day  per 
forms  the  same  duty  as  the  pivot  captain  of  the  past. 
This  is  merely  to  be  taken  as  a  general  idea  of  the 
formation  of  lines  ;  for  the  commandants  must  act 
in  accordance  to  the  situation  of  their  men,  at  the 
time  they  wish  to  form  them.  Some  officers  are  even 
less  expert  in  military  manreuvres  than  the  author  of 
Lord  Nial.  It  is  said  that  a  certain  major  of  an  Eng 
lish  regiment  (the  third  buffs)  having  got  his  men 
into  situation  from  which  his  knowledge  of  Sir 
Harry  Torrence's  maxims  could  not  extricate  them, 
and  wishing  to  form  a  particular  line,  gave  the  fol 
lowing  very  original  word  of  command  :  i;  Soldiers, 
from  the  centre  of  a  hobble,  to  your  proper  places 
in  a  line,  ri^ht  in  front  on  the  garrison  pump,  double 
march."!  !f 
s* 


198  NOTES. 

Note  4,  page  131,  line  13. 

"  My  lord,  no  demon  could  have  driven 
The  favored  of  the  pope  and  Heaven." 

Previous  to  the  invasion  of  Ireland  by  Henry  the 
Second,  the  people  refused  to  pay  a  certain  tribute 
entitled  St.  Peter's  Pense,  to  Adriance,  the  then 
pope  of  Rome,  who  was  an  Englishman.  This  had 
a  great  effect  in  the  prostration  of  Ireland  ;  for  the 
pope,  who  was  as  a  mighty  bird  of  empire,  under 
whose  wings  the  petty  monarchs  of  other  nations 
nestled,  not  only  threatened  the  people  with  ex 
communication  if  they  did  not  immediately  pay 
the  money,  but,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  made  a  pre 
sent  of  their  country  to  his  compatriot  Henry  the  Se 
cond,  on  condition  that  he  would  collect  and  remit  it. 
Thus  prepared,  Henry  landed  in  the  kingdom,  and 
threatened  those  who  resisted  with  the  curse  of  the 
Almighty.  The  natural  result  was  then,  as  it  would 
be  now,  under  like  circumstances  (that  is,  allowing 
for  the  pope's  great  supremacy),  obedience  —  men 
chose  rather  to  wear  the  fetters  of  a  transient  king, 
than  to  set  themselves  against  what  they  thought  to 
be  the  command  of  an  everlasting  God  ;  and  thus  the 
mingling  of  politics  with  religion,  effected  that,  which 
haply  else  had  defied  the  united  power  of  foreign 
bribery,  and  foreiga  swords. 


Note  8,  page  142,  lines  23. 

"  There  's  scarce  a  warrior  still  unblest, 
Who  bears  the  trefoil  on  his  crest." 
Need  it  be  said  that  the  trefoil  is  the  green  sham 
rock  of  Erin,  "the  most  poetic  of  all  emblems,"  the 
type  of  the  blessed  Trinity, — the  insignia  of  the  priest 
at  the  altar,  and  the  warrior  in  the  field.    Many  hun 
dred  years  ago  the  renowned  Brian    Borhoime  con 
quered  under  its  auspices,  and,  in  later  days,  the  no 
less  immortal  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  and  Robert 
Emmet  were  butchered  in  its  defence.      Neither  the 


NOTES.  199 

mvrtle  or  the  rose  have  been  more  frequently  immor 
talized  in  song,  and  neither  have  ever  been  sung  in 
such  beautiful  and  appropriate  language  as  the  fol 
lowing.  We  copy  it  at  the  risk  of  our  reputation,  as 
it  may  lead  to  invidious  comparisons ;  it  need  scarcely 
be  added  that  it  is  one  of  the  melodies  of  the  sweetest 
and  wittiest  of  all  bards,  Anacreon  Moore: 


"  Through  Erin's  isle, 

To  sport  the  while, 
As  Love  and  Valor  wandered, 

With  Wit,  the  spright, 

Whose  quiver  bright 
A  thousand  arrows  squandered. 

Wheree'er  they  pass 

A  triple  grass 
Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  streaming; 

As  sweetly  seen 

As  emeralds  green. 
Through  purest  chrystal  gleaming. 
O  !  the  shamrock,  the  green  immortal  shamrock, 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  bard  and  chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  shamrock. 

Says  Valor, "  See, 

They  spring  for  me  ; 
Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  :'' 

Says  Love,  "  No  —  no ! 

For  me  they  grow, 
My  fragrant  path  adorning  ;" 

But  Wit  perceives 

The  tearful  leaves, 
And  cries,  "O  !  do  not  sever 

A  type  that  blends 

Three  God-like  friends, 

Love,  Valor,  Wit  forever!" 
O  !  the  shamrock.  &c. 


300  NOTES. 

Note  9,  page  145,  line  9. 
— 'T  was  Mary's  self  implored. 

That  Miss  Mary  did  not  choose  to  make  herself 
visible  until  her  appearance  was  likely  to  have  little 
effect,  may  be  considered  as  something  that  needs 
explanation.  The  fact  is,  had  she  done  so,  she 
would  very  probably  have  gained  nothing ;  for,  as 
hate  and  vengeance  were  the  ruling  passions  of  Lord 
Nial  during  the  whirl  of  battle,  he  would  have  been 
a  very  improper  subject  for  a  love-lorn  dame  to  essay 
to  make  an  impression  on.  But  had  such  been  the 
case,  and  had  the  young  lady  succeeded  in  her  stra 
tagem,  it  would  have  been  of  but  little  advantage  to 
Lord  Nial's  character  as  a  soldier.  The  reader  of 
this  has  no  doubt  read  Q,uentin  Durward,  —  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  romances,  —  at  least  twenty 
times ;  and  we  will  venture  to  say,  that  he  always 
felt  himself  out  of  humor  with  his  young  hero,  at  the 
passage  in  which  he  relinquishes  the  fight  with  Sir 
William  Uelamarck,  to  save  the  daughter  of  the  Dutch 
Burgher.  It  always  appeared  to  us  as  if  the  young 
chevalier  was  very  glad  of  an  excuse  to  get  rid  of 
his  man ;  had  it  been  otherwise,  he  might  as  well 
have  given  charge  of  the  young  lady  to  his  uncle,  as 
to  have  employed  him  to  fight  "his  battle.  This,  no 
doubt,  struck  Sir  Walter  as  forcibly  as  it  does  us  ; 
but  then  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  do  some- 
mething  towards  the  fulfilment  of  Mr.  Saunder 
Souplejaw's  prophecy. 

All  these  matters  duly  considered,  it  will  be  seen, 
that  the  maiden  of  the  mere  took  the  very  best  time 
and  plan  in  the  world  for  effecting  her  purpose.  — 
When  the  turmoil  and  expectations  of  life  were  past, 
Lord  Nial's  memory  naturally  recurred  to  those  who 
made  that  life  most  dear  to  him  ;  and  the  young  lady, 
feeling  that  she  herself  is,  or  at  least  ought  to  be,  the 
leading  topic  of  his  thoughts,  shews  herself,  richly 
attired,  to  a  group  of  brutal  soldiers,  and  rushes  by 
the  lair  of  her  lover,  on  her  way  to  the  lake.  Has  Jie 


NOTES.  201 

a  spark  of  life  ?  and  can  he  resist  the  impulse  to  fol 
low  ?  —  has  he  a  spark  of  love  ?  and  can  he  have 
one  hope  left  ungratified,  but  that  of  sharing  the 
grave  of  his  own  devoted  Mary  ?  The  idea  of  the 
dying  soldier's  being  able  to  rise  and  follow  in  de 
fence  of  the  fugitive,  is  nothing  improbable,  for  per 
sons  at  the  last  stage  of  life,  just  as  the  spirit  has 
been  fluttering  on  the  brink  of  another  world,  have 
been  known  to  regain  possession  of  all  their  facul 
ties  and  energies,  for  a  few  moments,  when  inspired 
by  some  sudden  and  overwhelming  impulse. 


END    OF   NOTES. 


THE  tradition  runs  as  follows.  —  According  to  agreement, 
signed,  sealed,  and  delivered,  Loo  Tyrrell,  or  as  he  is  more? 
commonly  called,  Lutherall,  was  to  have  become  the  property 
of  a  certain  "  gentleman  in  black."  Being  determined,  how 
ever,  if  possible,  to  deceive  the  first  cause  of  his  seduction 
from  innocence,  he  prevails  on  another  gentleman,  in  black,  to 
make  a  second  purchase,  preparatory  to  which,  it  is  necessary 
the  first  bond  should  be  stolen,  and  destroyed.  This  is 
effected ;  and  to  make  the  cheat  still  more  annoying  when  dis- 
covered,a  forgery  is  substituted  in  its  place;  thus  Loo  Tyrrell, 
by  the  transfer,  releases  himself  from  all  obligation  to  the  first 
devil,  while  he  still  holds  the  power,  in  consequence  of  the 
loss  of  the  bill  of  sale,  of  retaining  him  in  his  service. 


205 


THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE. 

You  think,  because  that  stranger's  brow 
Is  lighted  up  with  laughter  now. 
That  he  is  happy  !  —  Could  you  see 
How  ill  his  breast  and  brow  agree, 
You'd  know  his  laughter,  like  the  light, 
On  dead  sea  apples,  false  as  bright. 

The  more  the  torch  illumes  the  walls, 
The  more  the  dungeon's  gloom  appals  j 
So  he,  the  more  his  laughter  swells, 
The  more  his  ruined  heart  rebels ; 
As  balsam  from  the  hemlock  wrung, 
Destroys  the  sprig  from  whence  it  sprung. 

Observe  him  well  —  his  phrenzied  mirth 

Springs  from  the  source  whence  tears  have  birth. 

His  wildest  laughter  analyzed, 

Is  little  else  than  groans  disguised.  — 

I  saw  him  in  the  crowded  hall, 

His  seemed  the  maddest  mirth  of  all ; 


206  THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE, 

But  —  for  I  marked  his  cheek  with  care,  — 

The  traitor  smiles  that  lingered  there, 

Seemed  wrung  from  madness,  guilt  and  shame  5 

A  treacherous  halo,  like  the  flame 

That  floats  o'er  Pluto's  pool  of  sin, 

The  beacon  of  a  curse  within. 

The  feast  was  over,  and  the  hour 
Was  night's  meridian,  —  beauteously 

The  moon-beams  streamed  on  field  and  flower, 
And  not  a  zephyr  kissed  the  sea, 

Along  whose  shore,  with  anguished  brow, 

That  mystic  stranger  wanders  now. 

Hark  !     Heard  ye  not  the  distant  bell 
Herald  the  midnight  —  Heavens  !  that  shout, 

Sure  all  the  deep-mouthed  dogs  of  hell 
United,  yelled  that  instant  out ; 

And  lo  !  the  sea,  so  lately  still 

As  moonlight  on  a  Lapland  hill, 

Where  not  a  trembling  leaf  can  throw 

A  shadow  on  its  veil  of  snow,  — 

Roars  wild,  as  if  the  ocean's  king 

Had  loosed  that  instant  every  spring, 

And  demons,  bent  on  wreck  and  slaughter, 

Were  tearing  up  the  tortured  water. 


THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE.  207 

And  lo  !  the  heavens  are  robed  in  gloom, 
As  if  to  mourn  some  planet's  doom, 
Whose  cup  being  full  of  wrath  and  crime, 
Awaits  alone  the  doom  sublime, 
To  melt  it  with  the  void,  from  whence 
The  power  that  melts,  did  first  condense 
It  into  being,  —  or  to  burst 
Its  mass  to  fragments,  —  each  accursed  ; 
As  once,  the  noblest  orb  that  bent 
Its  way  through  yon  black  firmament, 
Was  shattered  from  its  central  base, 
And  scattered  round  the  realms  of  space. 

Now  wild  and  wilder  rolls  the  ocean, 

Uptorn  by  some  internal  motion,  — 

For  never  yet  were  billows  riven 

So  fearfully  by  wind  of  heaven  ! 

Now  rides  the  demon  on  the  blast, 

Shakes  the  fixed  mountain  —  snaps  the  mast ; 

Now  echoes  loud  the  storm  fiend's  shout,  — 

Now  leaps  the  living  thunders  out. 

Whiles  roaring  on  its  earthward  sweep,  — 

Whiles  hissing  through  the  boiling  deep,  — 

Where  —  where  is  he,  that  man  of  woe? 

Still  wandering  where  the  waters  flow  ; 

1  would  not  bide  for  years  of  bliss 

The  naked  rage  of  night  like  this  ; 


308  THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE. 

In  vain  I  strive  his  steps  to  trace. 

No  moonbeam  tells  his  lurking  place  ; 

And  though  at  briefest  intervals, 

A  fire-bolt  falls,  so  quick  it  falls, 

That  ere  it  bares  the  horrors  round, 

}T  is  swallowed  in  the  gloom  profound. 

Forfend  us  heaven !  not  thine  the  ray 
That  lighted  then  both  land  and  bay. — 
The  dreadful  darkness  of  the  night 
Were  fairer  than  such  awful  light ; 
At  least,  the  terrors  that  ensue, 
Were  better  veiled  than  bared  to  view. 

On  yonder  mountain's  dizziest  peak, 

Methinks  I  see  the  form  I  seek. 

His  strange  aud  flowing  robes  make  known 

The  wandering  stranger — nor  alone, — 

He  stands  beside  another  form,  — 

'T  is  his,  the  fiend  that  sways  the  storm,  — 

I  know  him  by  his  scowling  eye, 

Like  a  red  bale-fire  in  the  sky. 

I  know  him  by  his  arm  upllung 

To  guide  the  whirlwind  on  its  way,  — 
I  know  him  by  the  sounds  that  rung 

From  hill  to  valley  —  land  to  bay, 


THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE.  209 

What  time  he  roared  in  summons  shrill, 

••'  Be  still,  ye  winds,"  —  the  winds  were  still ! 


Yea,  't  was  so  deadly  calm  around, 
As  if  the  whirlwind  had  unwound 
The  chain  of  system  as  it  swept, 
And  the  great  pulse  of  nature  slept. 
It  was  a  dismal,  pulseless  pause, 
Not  recognized  in  this  world's  laws  ; 
A  pause  that  leaves  both  wave  and  shore 
More  hideous  than  the  storm  before, 
For  even  that  general,  breezy  sound, 
That  still  pervades  the  landscape  round, 
Was  silenced  by  that  voice  of  dread, 
As  though  even  nature's  self  lay  dead. 

"  Loo  Tyrrell,  mark !"  the  demon  cried, 

And  forth  he  loosed  a  tablet  wide,  — 

"  Loo  Tyrrell,  mark  !  thy  reign  is  o'er, 

This  world  's  a  world  for  thee  no  more ; 

And  thy  eternity  of  pain 

Shall  well  repay  me  for  the  stain 

My  pride  has  suffered  in  the  chase, 

By  bending  to  a  thing  so  base. 

Loo  Tyrrell,  mark!  the  minute  's  near 

My  bond  is  up,  —  and  I  am  here." 


210  THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE. 

The  wizzard  shook  not  at  the  sound, 
That  seemed  to  shake  the  mountains  round ; 
But  whirled  his  wizzard  blade  on  high, 
And  laughed  the  while  exultingly, 
And  laughter  pealed  along  the  sky, 
From  viewless  forms  that  hovered  nigh ; 
Again  the  fiend  commands  to  cease, 
The  laughter  died,  —  and  all  was  peace. 

Yet  not  from  fear  that  wizzard  proud, 
Before  the  demon's  mandate  bowed ; 
His  curling  lip,  and  cutting  sneer, 
Told  more  of  triumph  far  than  fear  ; 
Back  shrunk  the  startled  fiend  amazed, 
And  at  his  mystic  victim  gazed  ; 
And  much  he  marvelled  what  might  be 
The  meaning  of  such  revelry  ; 
He  aye  had  seen  in  every  clime, 
The  wretch  that  triumphed  in  his  crime, 
When  sorrow  came,  and  sin  was  past, 
A  coward  and  a  slave  at  last. 

The  wizzard  spoke  !  —  Rock,  hill  and  glen, 
Gave  answer  to  his  voice  again, 
"  Produce  the  bond"  — 

"  Behold  and  see  !" 
'  Not  that,  cursed  fiend,  I  gave  to  thee, 
Thy  scroll  is  but  a  forgery." 


THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE.  211 

The  fiend  seemed  blasted  at  the  sound, 
"  A  forgery  !"  —  The  echoes  round, 
Were  in  that  shout  of  horror  drowned  ; 
It  seemed  as  though  the  essence  caught 
From  every  sound  with  torture  fraught, 
The  echos  of  each  fiendish  yell, 
That  rings  amid  the  roofs  of  hell, 
Were  in  yon  tottering  mountain  pent, 
And  that  damned  shriek  had  given  them  vent. 

"  Aye,  search  it  well !  no  blood  of  mine 

E'er  traced  a  letter,  or  a  line. 

I  watched  my  time,  —  I  seized  the  scroll. 

Broke  plight  and  pledge,  —  freed  heart  and  soul. 

The  tablet  which  to  thee  was  given, 

Is  mingled  with  the  winds  of  hearen  ; 

The  one  on  which  thou  gazest  now, 

With  bursting  eye,  and  burning  brow, 

Myself  inserted  in  its  cell, 

When  —  where,  it  little  boots  to  tell. 

Thy  fears  portray  it  all  to  well. 

Another  demon  claims  the  power 

Which  thou  hast  toiled  for  many  an  hour,  — 

Once  more  I  've  sold  myself,  to  be 

Unbonded  to  a  wretch  like  thee. 

But  still  do  I  the  power  retain, 

That  linked  thee  to  the  wizzard's  chain  ;  — 

The  bond  thou  ne'er  shalt  see  again, 


212  THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE. 

Alone  the  links  of  doom  could  sever, 
That  makes  thee  still  my  slave  forever. 
And,  oh  !  if  hell  can  add  a  curse, 
For  every  wish  my  soul  shall  nurse, 
Hence  forward  thro'  eternity, 
What  torments,  demon  !  wait  for  thee." 

O,  what  are  words  the  pangs  to  speak, 
Then  branded  on  that  demon's  cheek,  — 
That  baffled  demon  as  he  sprung. 
And  on  the  laughing  wizzard  flung 
A  look  so  pregnant  with  despair, 
Hate,  —  terror,  —  rage,  —  all  blended  there 
It  seemed  as  though  his  soul  within, 
Came  flashing  on  that  glance  of  sin,— 
As  though  the  orb  that  lights  the  eye, 
Imparted  then  its  last  supply, 
And  vengeance,  to  increase  its  might, 
And  give  it  all  its  power  to  blight, 
Condensed  it  from  its  vast  expanse, 
And  hurled  it  forth  in  that  wild  glance, 
Such  was  that  demon's  look  of  dread, 
And  then  his  stony  orb  seemed  dead. 
Again  the  wizzard  !  — 

"  Slave  accurst ! 

When  I  became  thy  dupe  at  first, 
Ere  gulled  by  pomp,  and  beauty's  brow, 
I  was  _  whate'er  I  am  not  now,— 


THE  WIZZARD-S  GRAVE.  213 

Young  — happy  —  innocent,  and  free, 
And  yet  again  the  same  to  be  ; — 
Again  to  look  with  hope  sublime, 
Thro'  the  dark  mist  of  unborn  time, 
I  would  not  barter  in  exchange, 
This  instant's  thrill  of  blest  revenge. 
JT  is  true  I  may  not  cheat  the  lash, 
But  perish  'mid  the  mutual  crash  ; 
My  life  is  verging  to  its  close,  — 
JT  is  fluttering  now,  but  ere  it  flows, 
I'll  prove  my  triumph.—  Slave,  begone  !" 
'Tis  done  —  the  stranger  stands  alone. 

But  brief  his  triumph  ;  from  the  north 
The  rested  storm  comes  thundering  forth, 
Uptearing  forests  in  its  sweep,  — 
Groans  the  fixed  mountain,  —  roars  the  deep. 
Still  high  the  wizzard  on  his  rock, 
Unmindful  of  the  whirlwind's  shock, 
Shouts  to  the  storm,  —  "  'T  is  done,  't  is  done  ; 
The  shaft  is  sped  —  my  race  is  run." 
While  from  the  heaven  a  fire  bolt  then 
Severed  the  tottering  rock  in  twain  ; 
It  thundered  down  the  bellowing  hill, 
Crashed  through  the  wave,  —  and  all  was  still. 

Yea,  all  is  still,  and  all  is  fair, 

Nor  cloud,  nor  storm  is  lingering  there ; 


214  THE  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE. 

The  moon  is  in  her  age  of  love, 

Silvering  the  calm  blue  heavens  above  ; 

And  earth  and  sky  are  free  from  sound, 

Save  the  light  gush  of  streamlets  round, — 

Was  all  I  've  heard,  and  all  I  've  seen 

Some  phantasy  that  ne'er  has  been  ? 

No,  for  the  hill  is  naked  now, 

The  rock  is  gone  that  crowned  its  brow  ; 

But  still,  to  mark  that  scene  of  woe, 

It  points  amid  the  flood  below  — 

But  who  was  he,  that  man  of  crime, 

Or  what  his  guilt,  or  where  his  clime  ?  — 

'T  were  wrong  to  ask,  —  't  were  wrong  to  tell ; 

Enough  he  nourished,  and  he  fell,  — 

And  still  the  mountain  marks  the  wave 

That  rolls  above  the  WIZZARD'S  GRAVE. 


2?2row  to 


Cottld  1  embody  and  unbosom  now, 
That  which  U  most  within  me—  could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  thought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe  —  into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  lightning,  1  would  speak, 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  roioeleis  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

BYRON- 


HYMN  TO  NATURE. 


BY  Heaven  !  a  glorious  morn,  yet  am  I  still 
Prone  to  my  abject  pallet;  —  brooding  o'er 
The  chances,  haply  of  a  fancied  ill, 
That  feeds  upon  reflection;  —  I  '11  no  more, 
But  mingle  with  the  morning  and  explore 
The  wonders  of  creation  :  — 

Well  I  knew, 

If  lurked  one  canker  in  my  spirit's  core, 
'  T  would  pass  away  like  friendship  —  fancy,  —  dev.r; 
With  this  eternal  flood,  an  I  that  fair  heaven  in  view. 

Oh !  Nature  what  a  wond'rous  thing  art  thou  ! 

Herald,  and  type,  of  the  Eternal  still. 

Hail  Abba  !  Father  !  by  thy  shrine  I  bow, 

To  bless  thee  for  my  being,  and  the  thrill 

Of  hope,  ambition,  love  — what  e'er  I  will 

To  name  it,  for  'tis  one,  and  comes  from  thee,  — 

That  gushes  through  my  bosom  in  a  rill, 

Of  rapture,  speeding  onwards  to  its  sea, 

For  what  are  hope,  pride,  love  ?— streams  of  eternity. 


218  HYMN  TO  NATURE. 

'T  is  now  I  feel  me  not  a  thing  of  TIME,  — 
The  grossness  of  my  thoughts  hath  passed  away. 
That  which  must  suffer  for  the  primal  crime, 
Bears  no  part  with  my  feeling  :  —  death  may  prey 
Upon  the  cankered  heart,  no  more  his  sway 
Extends  to,  —  would  his  latest  shaft  were  hurled, 
When  rising  from  its  chamber  of  decay, 
My  soul,  with  all  its  dormant  thoughts  unfurled, 
Left  for  a  holier  clime,  this  bleak,  benighted  world. 

Benighted  !  no  it  is  a  lovely  globe, 

Bounteous  as  summer,  and  as  beauty  fair  j 

Even  fancy  fails  to  deck  with  brighter  robe 

The  load  star  of  the  spirit  —  might  I  share 

A  scene  like  that  glowing  before  me  there, 

Eternally,  and  claim  it  as  mine  own, 

This  soul  would  cease  to  pant  for  change  of  sphere. 

But  there  for  aye,  unknowing,  and  unknown, 

Revel  in  wild  delight,  free,  happy,  and  alone. 

There  's  scarce  a  murmur  from  the  south's  soft  breeze. 
There 's  scarce  an  oar  upon  the  silver  sea  — 
And  yet  the  leaves  are  dancing  on  the  trees, 
And  the  glad  waves  are  laughing  in  their  glee  j 
What  is  it  moves  them  ?  —  Heaven's  soft  minstrelsy, 
The  hum  of  insects,  and  the  wild  birds'  lay  ; 
Or  rather 't  is  an  unborn  feeling  free. 


HYMN  TO  NATURE.  219 

That  bounds  through  all  things  of  a  summer's  day, 
The  rapture  of  the  world,  for  winter  passed  away. 

This  world  3s  a  living  principle  and  feels 

Its  being.  —  Think  you  that  a  world  like  this, 

Whose  every  change  an  inborn  soul  reveals, 

Hath  no  perception  of  its  own  great  bliss  ? 

That  aught  so  full  of  life,  and  beauty,  is 

Itself  a  ponderous  nothing,  —  mindless  —  dead  ? 

If  so  methinks  your  creed  is'all  amiss, 

For  I  believe  the  living  world  we  tread, 

Even  as  myself  a  thing,  by  hope,  fear,  passion,  fed. 

Lo !  how  it  looks  its  gladness  in  the  spring, 
And  laughs  in  summer's  fulness,  rife  with  mirth  ; 
When  birds,  and  brooks,  and  flowers,  and  every  thing, 
Proclaim  the  rapture  of  the  living  earth ; 
Again  when  sweeps  the  storm  God's  fury  forth, 
Stripping  its  bosom  of  its  summer  bloom, 
1T  is  not  alone  the  piping  winds  give  birth 
To  these  drear  sounds  that  rise  as  from  the  tomb, 
Of  the  young  buried  flowers,  mourning   their  early 
doom. 

Ah!  no,  'tis  sorrowing  Nature's  self  that  sighs  ; 

It  is  the  Earth  that  mourns  her  bloom's  decay, 

But  Spring's  return  will  come,  and  flowers  will  rise, 


220  HYMN  TO  NATURE. 

When  Thou —  and  I—  and  all  —have  pass  ed  away  ; 
At  least  have  changed  the  forms  we  bear  to-day, 
For  when  the  frame's  deserted  by  the  soul, 
It  shall  not  all  be  changed  to  senseless  clay, 
But  form,  while  Nature  rules,  or  planets  roll, 
A  living  portion  still  of  the  eternal  whole. 

'T  is  this  that  draws  the  exile's  heart  to  home : 
J T  is  this  dear  feeling  —  though  we  know  it  not  — 
That  guides  our  spirits  wheresoever  we  roam, 
True  to  some  first  loved,  consecrated  spot, 
Even  where  at  length,  we  wish  to  rest  and  rot, 
And  is  it  not  a  hope  inspired  by  God, 
When  cold  at  length  and  by  the  world  forgot,  — 
To  form  a  portion  of  one's  native  clod, 
With  kindred  hearts  inurned,  — by  kindred  footsteps 
trod? 

There  is  a  little  church  yard  by  the  wave 
Of  a  fair  river  in  an  isle  of  wo  ; 
A  pensive  schoolboy  marked  it  for  his  grave, 
And  now  an  exile,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
He  would  not  change,  for  every  joy  below, 
The  blissful  hope  of  mouldering  there  at  last, — 
Blow  on  ye  surliest  storms  of  fortune,  blow,  — 
He  little  recks  ii,  if  his  lot  be  cast 
To  rest  by  that  dear  stream,  when  all  your  powers 
are  past. 


HYMN  TO  NATURE.  221 

But  hold  !  why  linger  on  a  selfish  theme  ? 

It  recks  but  little  though  I  'm  blest  or  curst, 

Who  am,  in  this  world's  greatness,  as  a  dream  ? 

At  best  to  wake,  to  be  dissolved  at  worst. 

'  T  is  done — each  —  every  grosser  thought 's  dispersed. 

The  tug'for  lucre,  and  the  thirst  for  praise, 

And  now  I  'm  free  to  glad  ine  in  the  burst 

Of  morn,  that  wraps  all  nature  in  a  blaze, 

And  not  alone  be  glad,  but  worship  as  I  gaze. 

Look  out  into  that  ocean  blushing  now, 
And  paved  with  golden  dimples: — farther  still 
See  where  the  young  sun  laves  his  burning  brow 
In  floods  of  azure  glory  !  — round  the  hill 
The  fleecy  mists  hang  gathering  like  a  frill, 
And  now  up  curling  from  the  earth  in  scorn. 
They  soar  above  their  mountain  homes,  until 
In  midway  heaven  they  hang,  on  zephyrs  borne, 
To  form  a  drapery  meet  for  such  a  smiling  morn. 

Still  onward,  onward  cleaves  the  lord  of  light, 
Bathing  the  ether  with  a  golden  dew ; 
There's  not  an  object  glittering  in  his  sight 
But  seems  to  share  his  spirit's  rapture  too  ; 
One  mighty  life  pervades  creation  through, 
And  a  sweet  murmur  from  the  glancing  wings 
Of  countless  insects,  glorying  in  the  view 

TJ* 


222  HYMN  TO  NATURE. 

Of  such  a  morn,  while  every  echo  rings, 

To  the  lone  sky  lark's  hymn,  up  soaring  as  he  sings. 

There  is  a  sound  of  gladness  every  where, 
And  a  rich  robe  of  glory  all  about : 
And  wild  birds  tune  their  rapture  in  the  air, 
And  brooksj  and  torrents  answer  with  a  shout, 
Bees,  flowers,  and  mountains,  mingle  in  the  rout, 
With  hum,  and  sigh,  and  echo,  — soft,  or  shrill : 
While  the  great  voice  of  Nature  rules  throughout, 
Forming  in  all  —  though  wild  as  freedom  still  — 
A  melody  beyond  the  reach  of  music's  skill. 

O !  that  I  still  were  blessed  as  now  I  *m  blest : 

Were  still  as  buoyant,  and  as  free  to  soar: 

But  soon  the  sun  will  take  him  to  his  rest, 

And  then  the  morrow  comes, —  when  I  no  more 

May  glory  in  his  glow, —  but  tug,  and  bore, 

3  Mid  the  hot  city's  whirl  —  and  all  for  what? 

Even  that  which  dregs  our  nature  to  its  core  ; 

Which  makes  a  monarch  of  the  wealthy  sot, 

But  scarce  affords  a  crust  to  cheer  the  poor  man's  lot. 

Then  let  my  spirit  triumph  while  it  may, 
Ere  yet  my  fate  has  robbed  me  of  the  power ; 
Wake  heart,  wake  soul, —  unclogged  by  your  decay, 
And  revel  in  the  rapture  of  this  hour. 


HYMN  TO  NATURE.  233 

The  storms  of  life,  alas  !  too  soon  will  lour,  '-*- 

Then  why  anticipate  them  ?  —  no,  boy  —  no  ! 

All  bliss  is  like  the  beauty  of  a  flower, 

As  bright,  and  brief:  then  since  it  must  be  so, 

This  hour  I  '11  give  to  bliss,  nor  fear  to-morrow's  wo. 

But  lo !  the  day  is  lowering  cold  and  dim,  — 

How  have  I  chimed  my  numbers,  dong-ding-dong. 

The  red  sun  whispers  from  the  ocean's  brim, 

That  I  've  been  singing  to  him  all  day  long ; 

And  if  the  verse  be  weak,  the  thoughts  were  strong 

It  should  have  mirrored ;  — for  a  holier;  flame 

Never  gave  impulse  to  a  child  of  song, 

So  should  the  world  account  it  rude  or  tame, 

The  muse  is  faultless  all— the  bard  is  all  to  blame. 

Now  mid  the  darkening  rocks  I  leave  my  lyre  ; 
A  week  of  sorrow  must  roll  on  from  this,* 
Till  next  I  wake  an  echo  from  its  wire^ 
And  feel  the  greatness  of  a  poet's  bliss. 
Now  my  heart  reels  as  from  a  precipice, 
Gone  is  each  charm  that  held  its  hopes  in  thrall, 
Before  me  yawns  the  future's  black  abyss, 
Gloomy  as  midnight  round  a  murderer's  pall 
And  now  the  curtain  sinks  —  and  now  —  't  is  silence 
all. 

*  Written  Sunday,  July,  1833. 


©trtfltn  of 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  BACCHUS. 


A  FUNNY  old  man,  with  a  jolly  red  nose, 
Who  was  fond  of  a  little  drop  "  under  the  rose," 
And  a  thousand  things  more  that  were  nearly  as  bad 
Once  lived  in  the  city  of  Ballinafad. 

But  it  chanced  on  a  day — 't  was  a  Sunday  no  doubt, 
When  the  shops  were  all  shut  where  they  dealt  in 

"brown  stout," 

(For  hisflaggon  stood  empty  from  morning  till  night) 
That  he  fell  in  a  passion,  and  died  out  of  spite. 

Now  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  the  best  to  be  found, 
They  put  into  his  coffin  to  make  him  sleep  sound, 
For  they  knew  very  well,  with  a  quart  of  the  best, 
That  he  'd  be  quite  content,  though  shut  up  in  a  chest. 

Set  down  in  the  centre  of  ''Dammany  Hall," 
He  pockets  his  bottle  and  bows  to  them  all, 
Asks  the  judge  for  a  rummer,  of  half-and-half  grog, 
And  gets  kicked  into like  a  stone  in  a  bog. 


228  THE  ORIGIN  OF  BACCHUS. 

Then  up  comes  old  Fum  in  a  deuce  of  a  stew, 
So  he  whips  out  his  bottle  and  soon  made  him  blue. 
And  before  he  was  cured  of  that  fearful  carouse, 
He  had  scarcely  a  well-behaved  fiend  in  the  house. 

Tom  Nipshanks,  Jack  Firedrake,    and  fifty  fiends 

more, 

Were  all  singing  "  Bravo,  put  it  down  to  the  score," 
While  one   Paddy  O'Burnein,  and    Sawney   Mac 

Fume, 
Were  both  dancing  a  jig  in  the  midst  of  the  room. 

Now  start  not  ye  sons  of  the  Shamrock  so  green, 
And  start  not  ye  clans  of  the  Thistle  so  keen,     [air, 
For  where'er  yo  may  roam,  through  earth,  ocean,  or 

You  will  still  find  a  Scotch  and  an  Irishman  there. 

% 

For  the  one  runs  away  from  his  bayonets  and  duns, 
All  the  comforts  he  'd  find  in  the  home  that  he  shuns, 
While  the  other,  God  wot,  has  no  thought  when  he 

goes, 
But  to  search  for  some  barley  to  thicken  his  "brose." 

Then  their  horns  how  they  rattled  —  their  hoofs  how 
they  rang, 

As  they  laughed,  drank,  and  whistled,  — cursed  ca 
pered,  and  sang, 


THE  ORIGIN  OP  BACCHUS.  229 

While  as  chairman  aloof,  and  as  fresh  as  a  rose, 
Sat  that  funny  old  man,  and  his  jolly  red  nose. 

O  then,  what  did  the  prisoners  ?  but  need  you  in 
quire,  — 

Why  they  first  took  a  drop,  and  then  put  out  the  fire, 

While  the  imps  in  their  moment  of  freedom  and 
play, 

Flung  their  prongs  at  the  devil,  and  scampered  away. 

For  a  year  and  a  day,  as  their  bulletins  tell, 

There  was  nothing  like  decent  behavior  in , 

For  the  highest —  the  lowest ;  —  prince —  demon  — 

and  sprite  — 
Were  sick  every  morning,  and  drunk  every  night. 

Now  that  bottle  of  bottles,  ere  this  had  run  dry, 
But  that  Vulcan,  who  lov'd  an  odd  glass  on  the  sly, 
When  his  lady  was  off  with  her  gallants  in  town, 
Fix'd  a  spring  at  the  bottom  of  pure  "  Derry  Down." 

So  at  length  he  got  saving,  and  open'd  a  tap, 
And  grew  saucy,  and  fat,  did  this  funny  old  chap, 
For  their  fiendships  below,  or  their  godships  atop, 
Could  n't  sit,  stand,  or  walk,  but  they'd  long  for  a 
drop. 
v 


230  THE  ORIGIN  OF  BACCHUS. 

And  at  times  he  'd  give  tick,  and  at  times  he  'd  refuse,- 
And  he  took  in  deposits  whenever  he  chose, 
Till  his  cabin  was  fill'd  with  all  comical  things, 
Horns  and  tails  of  young  devils,  and  jolly  gods'  wings, 

But  at  length  the  affair  .came  to  Jupiter's  ear, 
Who  was  sick  of  raw  water,  and  black  berry  beer ; 
So  without  more  ado,  he  sends  off  for  the  flask,[cask. 
For  bethought  that  his  word  might  have  passed  for  a 

Says  the  man,  "  I  've  come  down  from  the  top  of  the 
hill, 

For  your  flask  for  my  lord"  —  "Where  's  your  mo 
ney?"  says  Bill.— 

"  O  the  money,  that 's  nothing,  —  we  thought  you 
gave  trust."  — 

"No  I  do  n't,  'pon  my  soul !"  —  "  Then  I  'm  d d 

but  you  must." 

O 't  was  then  that  bold  Irishman  looked  very  glum, 
As  he  seized  on  the  tongs  with  his  finger  and  thumby 
And  before  there  was  time  to  escape  through  the  door, 
He  laid  Mercury  heels  over  head  on  the  floor. 

But  he  jumped  to  his  feet  —  brushed  the  dirt  from 

his  wings  —  [slings, 

Blew  a  mort  for  his  troops  with  their  arrows  and 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  BACCHUS.  231 

While  old  Pluto  rushed  out  —  called  his  men  from 

their  work, 
And  they  met  with  a  roar  that  was  heard  in  New 

York. 

Now  the  battle  was  long,  and  the  battle  was  hot, 
And  poor  Pluto  was  kilt  with  an  empty  quart  pot, 
While  Dan  Mars  iu   the  onset  was  floored  like  a 

whale, 
By  a  slap  in  the  face  from  Tom  Belzebub's  tail. 

Now  they  all  began  flagging,  when  Billy  cries  "  stop," 
And  filled  up  every  devil  a  glass  to  the  top. 
At  the  sight  of  the  "  native,"  their  spirit  revives, 
So  they  thrashed  the  poor  gods  till  they  begged  for 
their  lives. 

Then  up  speaks  one  Apollo,  a  shrewd  wilted  God, 
And  he  seconds  his  speech  with  a  wink  and  a  nod, 
"  After  all  that  is  past,  we  could  lick  'em  like  sacks, 
If  that  chap  with  the  bottle  would  stand  to  our  backs. 

So  he  steps  up  to  Bill,  and  says  he,  with  a  leer, 
i:'Tis  a  mighty  dark  place  that  you  're  living  iu 

here, 

And  the  more  it 's  the  shame,  for  the  son  of  your  dad, 
For  you  came  of  good  people  in  Ballinafad. 


232  THE  ORIGIN  OF  BACCHUS. 

"  But  come/pack  up  your  traps,  for  Elysium  with  me, 
And  I  '11  give  you  the  half  of  my  cabin  rent  free ; 
And  we  've  girls  in  '  galore,'  for  you  know  very  well 
That  we  never  send  any  young  ladies  to ." 

Now  his  business  of  late,  had  been  only  so  so, 
For  the  half  of  the  devils  were  bankrupts  below ; 
And  old  Horny  himself  owed  five  shillings,  or  more, 
And  the  chance  was  but  slim  of  his  quitting  the 
score. 

So  the  blarney  subdued,  and  the  cabin  scot  lot, 
Made  him  turn  round  as  sharp  as  an  eel  in  a  pot ; 
But  the  thought  of  the  girls  put  an  end  to  the  strife, 
For  he  cried,  "  Lead  the  way,  I  'm  your  servant  for 
life." 

O  !  how  shall  your  poet  presume  for  to  sing, 

How  the  demon  turned  tail,  when  he  cut  with  their 

spring, 
All  the  gods,  how  they  fought,  with  "  a  drop  in  their 

eye," 
Whipped  the  foe  in  a  crack,  and  set  off  to  the  sky. 

Then,  Jupiter,  then,  't  was  yourself  that  looked  big, 
As  you  clutched  that  black  bottle,  and  took  a  long 
swig, 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  BACCHUS.  233 

And  swore  by  your  sceptre,  "'twas  all  very  true, 
That  the  nectar  of  nectars  was  '  Inishow'n  dew.'  " 


As  for  Juno,  she  hung'down  her  head,  and  said  "fie  !" 
But  that  night  there  were  mighty  strange  things  in 

her  eye, 
And  she  lectured  poor  Jove  — sang  "  The  guager  's  in 

town,"  — 
She  had  been  to  the  bottle,  I  'd  wag«r  a  crown. 

O  then  who  like  the  man  with  the  big  bellied  quart  ? 
And  O,  whose  was  the  house  of  such  constant  resort  ? 
For  the  ladies  proclaimed  him  purveyor-in-chief, 
So  their  husbands  grew  jealous,  and  drank  to  kill 
grief. 

And  tliey  christened  him  Bacchus,  —  and  why  ?  — 

if  you  ax, 

But  because  of  the  day  that  he  stood  to  their  backs, 
When  they  leathered  the  rogues  in  the  kitchen  like 

sacks, 
And  ran  off  with  mine  host,  and  his  bottle  of  max. 

So  you  see  ?t  is  as  plain  as  the  sun  in  the  sky, 
Or  the  nose  on  your  face,  or  the  smile  in  your  eye, 
That  the  jolly  god,  Bacchus,  who  drove  them  all  mad, 
Was  one  Billy  O'Thunder  from  Ballinafad. 
v» 


— ««  »T  in  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished-  to  die,  to  Bleep." 


A  MONODY. 

HEAVENS  !  what  an  inconsistency  is  here  ! 

They  starve  him  first,  then  weep  around  his  bier  ! 

JT  were  surely  better,  ere  his  spirit  fled, 

Had  those  who  mourn  him,  joined  to  buy  him  bread. 

And  yet  'twas  best  to  wither  in  his  strength, 

Than  after  years  of  fading,  fade  at  length  ; 

If  death  must  follow  still,  when  life  is  past, 

Then  death  is  all  that  life  attains  at  last ; 

So,  little  boots  it,  whether  fell  the  blow 

Or  yesterday,  or  twenty  years  ago. 

When  forward  to  some  destined  goal  we  bend, 

We  languish  still  to  see  our  journey's  end; 

No  V€lvet  bank,  nor  pathway  strewn  with  flowers, 

Bear  such  sweet  aspect  as  the  promised  bowers ; 

Then  why  prefer  life's  rugged  track  unblest, 

To  death's  sweet  solace,  and  a  grave  of  rest? 

Say,  thou  of  reverend  beard,  and  faultering  tongue, 
What  has  he  lost  by  leaving  life  so  young  ? 


238  A  MONODY. 

What  hast  thou  gained  by  living?  vvouldst  thou  say> 

The  glorious  privilege  of  long  decay  ! 

To  cling  like  thee  to  life,  till  it  had  grown, 

Like  thine,  the  plague  of  others,  and  its  own ; 

Till  the  warm  heart  of  youth,  matured  by  age, 

Became  the  seat  of  hate  —  suspicion  —  rage  — 

Low  cunning  —  deep  mistrust  —  guile  — envy  — 

fraud,  — 
All  —  all  that  angels  scorn,  and  demons  laud. 

I  do  not  say  that  aught  in  his  young  breast 

Was  ominous  of  evil,  but  the  whips 
Of  villains  would  have  torn  it,  and  its  best 

And  highest  hopes  been  palled  in  the  eclipse 
Of  envy  —  hatred  —  malice    -  misery  —  all 

That  man  can  tender  to  his  fellow  who 
Is  marked  from  out  the  world's  polluting  thrall 

By  some  high  curse  of  heaven  !  The  charge  is  true,. 
For  where  is  he,  whose  bosom's  every  burst 

Is  magnetized  by  glory,  proof  to  woe  ? 
And  where  the  wretch,  with  towering  genius  ciyst. 

That  ever  realized  a  hope  below  ? 
But  this  is  justice !  he  that  life  would  spurn, 
Can  hope  for  nothing  but  a  like  return  ! 

Not  so  the  plodding  fool,  whose  nature's  bent 
Is  earthward,  and  earth's  wiles  his  element  j 


A  MONODY.  239 

His  mother  knows,  and  soothes  him  from  his  birth, 
Hope  —  soul  —  thought  —  passion  —  all,  belong  to 

earth ; 

He  bows  his  breast  to  every  sweep  of  fate 
That  leaves  the  loftier  bosom  desolate  ; 
His  is  the  nature  of  the  toads  that  lie 
In  life  secure,  where  nobler  things  must  die ; 
He  is  the  slavish  weed  that  scapes  the  blast, 
Which  tears  the  forest's  monarch,  and  at  last, 
So  true  his  grovelling  instinct  worms  its  way, 

That  spite  of  heaven's  intent,  he  grasps  at  power, 
And  loftiest  spirits  bend  beneath  the  sway 

Of  one,  whose  cunning  is  his  only  dower, 
And  thus  do  souls  of  purest  innocence 
Become  degraded  in  their  own  defence, 
Thus  play  the  hound,  and  wallow  in  the  dust, 
That  knaves  may  smile,  and  life  may  have  its  crust. 

But  thou.  my  boy!    ere  tyranny  or  time 
Had  warped  thy  nobler  feelings  into  crime, 
Wen  called  to  blossom  in  that  blissful  sphere 
Thy  glowing  soul  anticipated  here; 
Thy  heart  soon  felt  the  barb  of  sorrow's  sting, 
Shrunk  at  its  touch,  and  perished  with  a  spring  j 
Thine  was  a  brief,  but  enviable  doom  ; 
Like  a  young  sorbos,  blasted  in  its  bloom, 


240  A  MONODY. 

Ere  wood-man's  axe,  or  Time's  corroding  air, 

Had  sapped  its  trunk,  or  left  its  branches  bare, 
*****  * 

How  calm  he  looks  upon  his  lowly  bier, 
And  yet,  oh  God  !  I  fain  would  have  him  here, 
Again  to  weep,  —  again  to  act  his  part, 
The  fangs  of  famine  tugging  at  his  heart! 
Rebellious  nature  still  would  burst  the  grave, 
And  spite  of  pity,  and  of  reason,  save  ; 
Would  hurl  a  dagger  at  each  heart  of  clay. 
That  drove  my  best,  my  sweetest  friend  away. 
Lo  !  how  they  gather  round  his  throne  of  peace, 
With  noisy  dole  !  —  Ye  canting  villians  !  cease, 
Dash  off  the  foul  pretender  from  each  brow, 
His  haughty  soul  would  spurn  your  homage  now. 
Lo !  see  the  wretched  victim  of  neglect 
Whose  will  to  please  you  was  his  chief  defect ; 
Behold  the  trappings  of  his  chamber  base, 
The  furrows  of  his  meek,  but  lleshless  face, 
The  scant  and  vile  chaff  pallet  Avhere  he  lies, 
And  then  confess  the  mockery  of  your  sighs  ; 
These  were  your  gifts  before  his  soul  was  sped  ! 

Your  tears  —  an  equal  prize  —  you  give  the  dead ! 

****** 

The  train  moved  on  —  they  stood  beside  his  lair — 
And  all  was  ended  by  a  hireling  prayer  ! 


A  MONODY.  241 

Not  such,  as  leaves  the  soul  for  friends  that  die, 
And  yet  the  best  that  parson's  fees  can  buy  ! 
Now  dry  your  tears,  and  leave  my  boy  to  rot, 
His  soul  rejects  —  his  frame  requires  them  not ; 
Cold,  cold  within  its  urn,  at  rest  and  safe, 
Tears  cannot  soothe  it  now,  nor  curses  chafe. 

Now  spade  and  mattock  to  your  labors  go, 
And  shape  the  grave,  and  hurl  the  clod  below; 

Come  here,  ye  whiners  —  ye  who  scorned  to  save, 

And  wrap  the  mantle  round  your  victim's  grave  — 
His  couch  of  rapture  rather,  for  't  is  sweet, 

When  broken  hearts  and  dreamless  slumbers  meet ; 

On  either  hand,  his  ransomed  soul  is  blest, 

With  heaven  eternal,  or  eternal  rest ; 

For  't  is  a  riddle,  half  resolved  at  best, 

But  brief  the  doubt,  and  all  shall  prove  the  test ; 

A  few  short  years,  and  we  around  him  met, 

Shall  be  the  graves  of  some  that  are  not  yet. 

*  *  *  * 

Cold  hearts  were  gathered  round  him  when  the  dead 
Was  laid  for  ever  in  his  lowly  bed. 
Aye,  some  were  there  —  but  O!  they  never  felt 
A  kindred  sympathy  with  souls  that  melt 
To  pity,  when  they  see  this  world's  decay 
Bear  all  that's  loftiest  and  best  away  ; 
w 


'342  A  MONODY. 

Who  in  his  hour  of  pain  applied  no  art 
To  lift  one  canker  from  his  withering  heart,  — 
Who,  at  his  soul's  departure,  came  not  nigh 
To  close  the  lashes  of  the  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Even  now  the  starting  tears  mine  eyes  bedim, 
But  stranger,  tho'  I  mourn,  't  is  not  for  him  ; 
Why  should  I  weep  for  innocence  at  rest  ? 
Or  wish  him  hither, when  I  know  he  's  blest  ? 
My  tears  are  selfish  all,  for  they  are  shed, 
That  I  am  living  — not  that  he  is  dead. 


SUMMER 

Bear  woman  is  ever  my  stady—  my  pilot,  wherever  I  row, 

Be  life's  atmosphere  pleasant  or  mnddy,  I  'at  always  ten  faihoat  in  lore. 

TEEKOVSR. 

Lo !  the  blushing  heaven  inspired, 

The  primal  dawn  of  May  discloses,  — 
See  the  seasons'  Queen  attired, 

With  robe  of  light  and  wreath  of  roses ; 
Hark  !  the  woods  with  music  ring, 

Echo,  every  note  encoring, 
While  the  sky  lark  on  the  wing, 

The  rapture  of  his  soul  is  pouring; 
Nymph  of  beauty  — buds  — and  bowers, 

Delightful,  wild,  but  gloomy  never  — 
What  a  world  of  bliss  were  ours, 

Could  we  secure  thy  smiles  for  ever. 

Tired  of  winter's  cheerless  gloom, 

That  long  in  stony  glades  confined  them, 
Ladies  seek  the  garden's  bloom, 

And  leave  the  smoky  town  behind  them  ; 
Eyes  no  more  are  sunk  and  dull, 

Lips  and  cheeks,  decayed  or  tainted. 
All  is  bright  and  beautiful, 

I  '11  swear  —  by  heaven  !  the  maids  are  painted  ! 
Yes,  believe  me,  Health  supplies 

The  tints  from  Nature  and  the  Graces  ; 


244  SUMMER. 

Love  prepares  the  rosy  dyes. 
And  strews  them  o'er  his  votaries'  faces. 

See  on  yonder  fountain's  side, 

A  group  of  lovely  girls  advancing, 
Every  brow  with  beauty  dyed, 

And  every  eye  with  laughter  glancing. 
Hand  in  hand,  they  glide  along, 

All  light  as  if  no  cares  had  bound  them, 
Dancing  to  the  wild  bird's  song, 

That  floats  on  every  breeze  around  them, 
Woman  —  lovely  woman  —  thou 

Art  hope's  chief  heaven  —  so  pure  —  so  blooming, - 
Leafless  be  the  minstrel's  brow, 

That  taints  the  fame  of  lovely  woman. 

And  as  the  breeze  their  light  scarfs  swing, 

Each  seems  to  every  rapt  beholder, 
Graceful  as  a  spangled  wing 

Suspended  from  an  angel's  shoulder; 
Now  the  dance  is  o'er,  and  they, 

Upon  that  streamlet's  bank  reclining, 
Woo  the  winds  that  round  them  play, 

Or  watch  their  shades  beneath  them  shining ; 
And  O  !  if  brightest  things  had  power 

To  fascinate  the  eye  for  ever, 


SUMMER.  946 

They  who  gazed  that  witching  hour, 
Had  never  left  that  lovely  river. 

Said  one  bright  girl,  "  How  fair  we  look  ; 

I  fear  't  is  but  some  '  flattering  error,' 
Sure  there  's  something  in  the  brook 

Like  Semele's  deceiving  mirror  ;" 
Young  Sue  replied,  in  tone  of  woe, 

Which  all  betrayed  her  soul's  dejection, 
"  Thine  is  true,  but  mine  —  Ah  !  no, 

I  'm  not  so  fair  as  my  reflection," 
The  while  she  spoke,  a  tear-fraught  sigh 

Escaped,  her  dark  blue  eye  adorning; 
Tears  become  a  maiden's  eye, 

As  mountain  mists  the  light  of  morning. 

The  day  retires  —  the  sunbeams  sink, 

And  Night  extends  her  darkening  fingers  ; 
But  still  along  the  ocean's  brink 

A  last  red  ray  of  glory  lingers: 
'T  is  gone  —  but  yonder  sun-cloud  light, 

Proclaims —  perchance,  to  cheer  your  sorrow, 
That  he  who  sets  in  smiles  tonight, 

Will  rise  again  in  smiles  tomorrow  ; 
Now  Cynthia  sheds  her  silver  showers 

Those  gentle  maids  who  felt  the  warning, 
By  her  light  regained  their  bowers,  — 

And  so  —  Dear  Girls,  adieu  till  morning. 
w* 


ADAM  AND  EVE. 

•'  A  thing  beyond  all  praise." 


WHO  can  reproach  thee,  Adam,  with  the  crime 

That  drove  thee  forth  from  Eden,  if  the  brow 

Of  her  who  wooed,  and  sued  thee  at  the  time, 

Was  heavenly  as  the  record  beaming  now 

From  out  the  web  before  me  ?  and  if  thou 

Wert  such  as  I  am,  thy  impotent  son, 

Forc'd  (reckless,  fame  —  hope  —  reason  —  heaven,) 

—  to  bow, 

When  beauty  claims  her  dower  —  believe  me  —  one 
Who  placed,  as  thou  wert  placed,  had  done  as  thou 

hast  done. 

O  thou  !  O  thou  !  whose  spirit's  sight  could  peer 

Into  the  heaven  of  beauty,  and  draw  forth 

Such  lips  —  and  eyes  —  and  soul,  as  we  have  here, 

Again  to  pout—  and  beam  —  and  burn  on  earth,  — 

Say,  are  they  truly  of  immortal  birth, 

Or  bom  within  thy  bosom?  if  the  last, 

I  cannot  find  a  word  to  speak  thy  worth, 

But  whichsoe'er  they  are,  alike  thou  hast 

The  tribute  of  my  heart,  where'er  thy  home  be  cast. 


ADAM  AND  EVE.  247 

Perchance  by  Chindera's  breathing  fount  he  lay, 
Sketching  the  glories  of  the  mystic  spring  ; 
When  the  young  Queen  of  Music  came  the  way, 
And  bared  her  beauties  to  his  penciling. 
For  O  !  there  's  music  in  them —  and  to  sing 
Their  sovereign  triumph  o'er  the  soul,  should  be 
The  task  of  some  born  monarch  of  the  string  ! 
Whose  tongue  could  utter  what  his  eye  might  see. 
Weaving  his  glowing  song  from  that  rich  drapery. 

Milton  has  sung  that  of  the  heavenly  race 
Of  women.  Eve  was  heavenliest  —  true  to  this 
There  is  a  glory  in  that  imag'd  face 

Unknown  to  Mercy  !  —  I  have  sang  amiss  — 

But  let  it  go  —  that  peerless  brow  to  kiss, 

Were  it  invested  with  a  soul  as  fair, 

Man  might  forego  th'  anticipated  bliss 

Of  fifty  Edens,  for  a  world  of  care, 

Yea,  heaven  itself  were  such,  to  light  his  exile  there. 

And  see  the  sire  of  our  degenerate  race, 
Looking,  as  he  should  look  before  the  fall, 
Proud  of  his  hopes,  his  home,  and  form  of  grace. 
But  prouder  of  his  lady  far  than  all. 
His  very  pride  bespeaks  his  spirit's  thrall, 
And  woman  all  triumphant  —  still  his  eye 
Looks  wav'ringly  to  heaven  —  perchance  to  call 


248  ADAM  AND  EVE. 

His  God's  assistance  down  —  and  now  that  sigh,— 
The  very  canvass  breathes  —  't  is  done  —  hope  — 
heaven  —  good  bye. 

Now  turn  we  to  the  hour,  when  sin  first  flung 
Her  blight  around  creation  —  up  my  soul ! 
Mount  on  the  storm  which  tears  that  scene  among, 
Proclaiming  man's  disgrace,  and  nature's  dole  — 
Hark  !    how   the  .lightnings   hiss  —  the  thunders 

roll  — 

The  wounded  pine  tree  groans,  uptorn  and  rent, 
The  infant  whirlwind  rushes  from  its  goal, 
Curling  the  startled  waters  in  its  bent, 
And  all  is  storm,  and  gloom,  and  light,  and  beauty 

blent. 

And  see  the  lawny  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Claiming  the  sovereignty,  which  after  time 
Award  to  his  desendants.     Lo  !  the  flood, 
Adding  its  terrors  to  that  hour  of  crime  — 
Storm,  flood,  and  thunder,  meet  in  war  sublime, 
Hurling  confusion  round  them  —  Earth  groans  out, 
Mourning  the  havoc  of  her  harvest  prime, 
The  torrent  meets  the  ocean  with  a  shout,  — 
Hills  totter  —  mountains  burst  —  and  horror  reigns 
throughout. 


ADAM  AND  EVE.  249 

But  what  is  nature's  bustle  ?  —  what  the  war 
Of  floods  and  whirlwinds  —  all  that  tongue  can  tell, 
There  's  something  more  iremendous  —  deadlier  far. 
In  the  blanched  cheek  —  strained  eye,  and  torturing 

swell 

Of  Adam,  on  the  moment  that  he  fell, 
O  Heaven!  what  hand  could  trace  such  wild  despair? 
The  look  is  worthy  of  the  loss,  though  hell 
Had  closed  on  him  that  moment,  and  laid  bare 
The  ills  of  after  time  piled  up  in  mountains  there. 

But  still  there  is  one  feeling  lingering  yet 

Of  former  joy  --  't  is  love  for  her  who  kneels 

In  ruin  at  his  feet  —  their  eyes  have  met 

In  love's  despair,   and  that  wild  glance  reveals 

What  each  conceives  and  dreads,  and  hopes,  and 

feels. 

She  looks  alone  to  him  for  hope  —  and  he, 
Reckless  of  the  wild  whirl  that  round  him  reels, 
And  reckless  of  its  cause,  too,  bends  his  knee, 
Losing  each  other  thought  in  his  love's  agony. 

But  this  is  not  a  picture  —  't  is  the  life, 
Leaping  about  the  canvass  —  every  track 
Proclaims  some  novelty,  with  action  rife, 
Waters  that  lash  and  roar  -•  the  whirlwind's  rack : 
Hark  !  hear  ye  not  the  rocking  pine  tree  crack, 


250  ADAM  AND  EVE. 

Split  by  a  fire  shaft  in  its  sweep  of  pride, 

Lo,  see  the  light  kindling  the  lion's  back, 

Gilding  the  forms  of  Adam  and  his  bride  : 

And  baring  rage,  and  storm,  and  life,  on  every  side. 


Note. — THE  two  paintings  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise,  one 
representing  them  in  a  state  of  innocence,  the  other,  the  mo 
ment  after  the  committal  of  their  first  crime,  are,  to  our 
taste,  the  most  glorious  specimens  of  this  noble  art  that  we 
ever  beheld.  They  were  painted  by  De  Bouff,  a  French 
artist.  If  the  countenance  of  the  Venus  De  Medicis  be 
as  beautiful  as  that  of  Eve,  as  she  appears  in  the  first,  the 
highest  of  the  encomiums  bestowed  upon  it,  have  been  very 
justly  deserved ;  the  other  is  a  most  glorious  picture  of  all 
that  is  sublime  and  horrible  in  the  war  of  elements,  and  the 
intensity  of  despair  portrayed  on  the  visages  of  Adam  and 
his  bride,  at  the  instant  of  their  ruin,  is  most  truly  in  accord 
ance  with  the  misery  of  their  situation. 


ELEGY  ON   SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

If  those  be  right  whose  creeds  deny 
The  spirit's  immortality  — 
Who  yearn  not  fora  nobler  sphere  — 
Heavens  !  what  a  wreck  of  soul  is  here  ! 

And  is  our  noblest,  mightiest  one, 
Into  eternal  chaos  gone? 
He  who  sublimely,  and  alone 
Was  known  by  all,  yet  curst  by  none  ! 
W^hose  matchless  skill  in  every  art, 
That  fires  the  soul,  and  wraps  the  heart, 
Was  never  made  the  bright  disguise 
Of  thoughts,  designed  to  victimise. 

'  T  is  true,  what  ever  death  may  crave, 
Is  laid  at  rest  in  mound  or  wave  ; 
'T  is  true  the  knight  that  conquered  more 
Than  even  his  own  brave  knights  of  yore. 
Has  laid  in  his  lowly  cell, 
And  more  of  fame  than  ever  fell 
To  chieftain's  or  to  monarch's  lot, 
Proclaims  the  grave  of  Walter  Scott; 


852  ELEGY  ON  SIR  W.  SCOTT. 

For  those  at  best,  with  single  sword, 

Have  battled  with  some  untrained  horde  ; 

Or  won  their  bays  from  menial  crowd, 

While  all  the  world  to  him  has  bowed. 

'T  is  true,  that  having  given  to  fame 

As  deathless  and  as  fair  a  name 

As  ever  graced  a  minstrel's  rhyme, 

He  's  ta'en  him  to  his  sleep  of  time ; 

The  heart  that  pored  —  the  head  that  planned. 

Are  dark  and  throbless,  and  the  hand 

That  wove  their  magic  with  the  lay, 

Cold  —  cold,  and  gauntleted  in  the  clay  ! 

The  minstrel's  last  sweet  note  is  sung, — 
The  minstrel's  last  sad  knell  is  rung,— 
For  Harrold's  —  Rokeby's  -  -  Marmion's  bard. 
Has  changed  his  bower  for  chapel  yard  ; 
The  bard  of  Scotland's  feudel  time.  — 
Her  castled  craigs,  and  wilds  sublime, 
And  galliards  stout  and  gentle  dames, 
Now  slumbers  with  his  "  James  Fitz  James." 

But  still 't  were  wrong —  'twere  wild  to  say, 

The  mind  is  mouldering  with  the  clay, 

That  such  a  boundless  world  of  mind 

Is  wasted  on  the  desert  wind  ; 

That  he,  whose  more  than  human  skill, 

Could  mould  all  feelings  to  his  will ; 


ELEGY  ON  SIR  W.  SCOTT.  253 

Could  wake  the  bosom's  merriest  glow, 

Or  chain  it  in  a  wreath  of  wo 

(For  even  his  words  of  wildest  grief, 

Were  twined  with  flowers,  to  give  relief). 

Has  left  no  scion,  but  a  name, 

To  glory  in  his  deathless  fame. 

Till  the  spent  bosom  of  the  earth 

Has  given  its  latest  spring  flowers  birth; 

Till  all  the  glorious  world  around 

Is  mingled  with  the  void  profound  ; 

Till  time  that  frees,  or  holds  in  thrall, 

That  makes,  and  mars,  and  levels  all, 

With  indisputable  decree, 

Is  grafted  in  eternity,  — 

Love  —  Honor  —  Fame  —  shall  mark  the  spot 

Where  sleeps  the  dust  of  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Up,  minstrels,  up  !  —  of  every  clime, 
Where  lives  the  wizzard  in  his  rhyme  ; 
Up,  Campbell,  up  !  —  though  hope  be  gone, 
Shall  "  Hope's"  own  bard  look  silent  on  ? 
Up,  Rogers !  —  he  can  ill  refuse 
The  tribute,  that  is  "  Memory's"  muse  ! 
And  thou,  the  latest  left  behind, 
Of  the  three  master  sons  ot  mind  j 


852  ELEGY  ON  SIR  W.  SCOTT. 

For  those  at  best,  with  single  sword, 

Have  battled  with  some  untrained  horde  ; 

Or  won  their  bays  from  menial  crowd, 

While  all  the  world  to  him  has  bowed. 

'T  is  true,  that  having  given  to  fame 

As  deathless  and  as  fair  a  name 

As  ever  graced  a  minstrel's  rhyme, 

He  's  ta'en  him  to  his  sleep  of  time ; 

The  heart  that  pored  —  the  head  that  planned, 

Are  dark  and  throbless,  and  the  hand 

That  wove  their  magic  with  the  lay, 

Cold  —  cold,  and  gauntleted  in  the  clay  ! 

The  minstrel's  last  sweet  note  is  sung, — 
The  minstrel's  last  sad  knell  is  rung,— 
For  Harrold's  —  Rokeby's  -  -  Marmion's  bard, 
Has  changed  his  bower  for  chapel  yard  ; 
The  bard  of  Scotland's  feudel  time.  — 
Her  castled  craigs,  and  wilds  sublime, 
And  galliards  stout  and  gentle  dames, 
Now  slumbers  with  his  "  James  Fitz  James." 

But  still 't  were  wrong—  'twere  wild  to  say, 

The  mind  is  mouldering  with  the  clay, 

That  such  a  boundless  world  of  mind 

Is  wasted  on  the  desert  wind ; 

That  he,  whose  more  than  human  skill, 

Could  mould  all  feelings  to  his  will ; 


ELEGY  ON  SIR  W.  SCOTT.  253 

Could  wake  the  bosom's  merriest  glow, 

Or  chain  it  in  a  wreath  of  wo 

(For  even  his  words  of  wildest  grief, 

Were  twined  with  flowers,  to  give  relief), 

Has  left  no  scion,  but  a  name. 

To  glory  in  his  deathless  fame. 

Till  the  spent  bosom  of  the  earth 

Has  given  its  latest  spring  flowers  birth ; 

Till  all  the  glorious  world  around 

Is  mingled  with  the  void  profound  ; 

Till  time  that  frees,  or  holds  in  thrall, 

That  makes,  and  mars,  and  levels  all, 

With  indisputable  decree, 

Is  grafted  in  eternity,  — 

Love  —  Honor  —  Fame  —  shall  mark  the  spot 

Where  sleeps  the  dust  of  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Up,  minstrels,  up  !  —  of  every  clime, 
Where  lives  the  wizzard  in  his  rhyme ; 
Up,  Campbell,  up  !  —  though  hope  be  gone, 
Shall  "  Hope's"  own  bard  look  silent  on  ? 
Up,  Rogers!  — he  can  ill  refuse 
The  tribute,  that  is  "  Memory's"  muse  ! 
And  thou,  the  latest  left  behind, 
Of  the  three  master  sons  of  mind  ; 


254  ELEGY  ON  SIR  W.  SCOTT, 

For  Byron  —  Scott  —  and  Moore,  shall  long 
Be  known  the  three  compeers  of  song  ; — 
Up,  Silver-toned  Anacreon ! 
And  mourn  a  brother  minstrel  gone. 

And  oh !  shall  gentlest  Bryant  wrong 
The  memory  of  a  child  of  song  ? 
When  such  as  Scotland's  minstrel  die, 
Can  Bryant's  harp  the  boon  deny  ? 
And  Halleck,  of  the  niggard  lyre, 
Come,  shake  the  cobwebs  from  the  wire, 
And  wake  a  strain  for  Walter's  urn, 
As  deathless  as  your  "  Robert  Burn  j" 
Come  Woodsworth  too,  nor  shun  the  call ; 
Come  Ruin-hearted  Percival ! 
"  Come  one,  come  all,"  in  gathered  might, 
Give  each  your  loftiest  fancies  flight, 
And  sing  Sir  Walter's  "  last  good  night." 

New  Yor/c,2Vbi;.10,1832. 


THE  POET'S  RETURN. 

MERRILY  cleaves  the  lordly  bark 
Through  the  clashing  flood,  with  its  crest  of  snow, 

Mingled  with  many  a  glancing  spark 
That  shine,  like  gems,  in  the  wave  below ; 

O  who  shall  fathom  the  minstrel's  mind, 
Standing  aloof  on  the  rolling  bow, 

As  his  cheek  is  fanned  by  the  balmy  wind, 
That  blows  from  the  land  of  his  boyhood  now. 

Long  has  he  poured  his  lay  sublime, 

To  raptured  ears  in  a  distant  clime  j 

But  vain  were  the  plaudits  the  islands  gave, 

Still  Memory  beckoned  him  o'er  the  wave  ; 

So  lowly  their  palaces  seemed  to  be, 

To  the  shrines  of  the  goddess  that  guards  the  free  ; 

Still  would  his  eye  in  rapture  rest 

On  the  golden  skies  of  his  native  west; 
At  length  the  feelings  of  days  gone  by, 

Wrought  so  deep  in  his  spirit's  core, 
He  seeks  the  land  where  he'd  love  to  die, 

For  nature,  and  hope,  could      ook  no  more. 


256  THE  POET  S  RETURN. 

The  clouds  that  floated  along  the  sky- 
Have  dissolved  in  mists,  and  are  gathering  round. 

Too  dense  for  the  search  of  human  eye. 
And  the  land  is  lost  in  the  dusk  profound ; 

But  still  is  the  bard  on  the  bending  boom, 
Striving  to  pierce  the  gathering  haze ; 

And  what  is  denied  by  the  clouds  that  gloom, 
Memory  gives  to  his  raptured  gaze. 
Memory  tells  where  such  things  should  be, 
And  he  sees  them  all  as  he  strives  to  see; 
The  sombre  wood,  and  the  daisied  hill, 
All  clad  in  their  own  wild  beauty  still ; 
Ah,  soon  he  '11  see  with  a  proud  regret, 
How  scenes  are  changed  since  his  childhood  seL 
And  soon  he  '11  see  that  where  'er  we  roam, 
There  's  no  home  in  the  world  like  his  own  "  Sweet 

Home." 
Now  the  vessel  has  neared  the  land  — 

Sails  are  furled,  and  cables  flung ; 
Bounds  the  bard  to  his  native  strand, 
Not  unhonored,  and  not  unsung. 

O  !  that  was  a  triumph  of  song  indeed, 
As  we  gathered  at  night  in  a  festive  crowd, 

To  give  to  our  poet  a  lasting  meed, 
And  to  girdle  his  brows  with  a  garland  proud  !.. 


THE  POET'S  RETURN.  257 

For  woman  was  there  with  her  conquering  eyes, 

And  her  beauty  so  dazzled  the  ring  that  night, 
That  our  festive  hall  seemed  a  paradise, 

And  every  lady  an  angel  bright. 
O  how  happy  that  wandering  bard, 
To  whom  beauty  has  given  such  bright  reward  ; 
Little  he  recks  how  his  hope  beguiles, 
Thus  safe  in  his  rampart  of  beauty's  smiles. 
O  woman  !  dear  woman  !   if  given  by  thee 
The  bays  of  the  poet  —  though  poor  he  be, 
Is  still  more  dear,  and  more  lasting  far, 
Than  the  wreath  of  the  hero  though  red  with  war. 

O  long  may  it  circle  that  minstrel's  brow, 

And  long  may  it  bloom  when  the  bard  is  past, 

As  a  beacon  of  hope  and  of  glory  now,  — 
As  a  trophy  to  hang  on  his  tomb  at  last. 

Note.— Mr.  John  Howard  Payne  landed  in  New  York, 
after  an  absence  of  several  years,  during  the  summer  of 
1832.  His  friends,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  his  fellow 
citizens,  gave  him  a  benefit  at  the  Park  Theatre,  in  which 
two  of  his  own  most  popular  pieces,  Brutus^  and  Charles 
the  Second,  were  enacted.  Forrest,  Wallack,  Kemble  and 
his  daughter,  the  irresistible  Fanny,  sustaining  the  chief 
characters.  The  crowd  that  assembled  on  the  occasion 
must  have  been  most  gratifying  to  the  feelings  of  the  prin 
cipal  person  concerned ;  for  there  was  a  galaxy  of  such 


258  THE  POET'S  RETURN. 

lovely  women  present,  that  we  could  not  help  exclaiming 
with  the  author  of  the  "  Veiled  Prophet,"  — 

"  That  the  same  lips  and  eyes 

They  wear  on  earth,  will  serve  in  paradise." 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LITTLE  BIRD. 

THE  sun  above  the  smiling  world 

In  silver  glory  rose, 
And  wakened  flowers,  their  leaves  unfurled. 

Fresh  from  their  late  repose  ;  — 
That  hour  I  left  my  chamber's  gloom 

And-sought  the  upland  free, 
And  thought  in  such  a  world  of  bloom 

How  happy  man  should  be. 

A  little  bird  sat  on  a  thorn, 

And  Oh  !  I  never  heard, 
For  many  a  day,  until  that  morn, 

So  sweet  a  little  bird. 
His  bower  was  sheltered  from  the  breeze 

That  softly  sighed  along, 
So,  well  I  knew  the  tiny  trees 

Were  dancing  to  his  song. 

;T  was  sweet  —  that  little  songster's  smile, 
And  bright  his  spangled  plume,  — 

And  Oh!  his  joyous  heart  the  while 
Was  bounding  in  its  bloom. 


.60          DEATH  OF  THE  LITTLE  BIRD. 

He  loosed  his  fair  and  fairy  wings 

And  left  his  native  spray, 
But  still  the  tiny  forest  rings 

Responsive  to  his  lay. 

Now,  high  in  air  his  song  is  heard, 

But  still  the  echoes  rang, 
And  then  I  blessed  that  little  bird, 

So  beauteously  he  sang. 
But  as  he  sang,  a  ruffian  gun 

Was  levelled  at  his  head, 
And  ere  his  last  sweet  note  was  done, 

That  little  bird  was  dead  ! 

He  fell  beneath  his  own  fair  tree,  — 

Among  whose  branches  oft 
He  poured  his  soul  in  minstrelsy, 

So  beautiful  and  soft ; 
And  as  I  gazed,  that  gloomy  hour, 

Upon  the  warbler  slain, 
I  would  have  given  my  fortune's  dower 

To  hear  him  sing  again. 


LOVE,  OR  AN   HONEST    EPISTLE, 

FROM   A   POET   TO    HIS    MISTRESS. 

FAREWELL  to  thee,  Ellen,  for  O  dearest  maiden, 
Ere  this  you  receive,  we  forever  have  parted: 

In  sooth,  if  your  town  I  had  longer  delay 'd  in, 
I'd  leave  it  with  thee,  love,  or  go  broken  hearted ; 

But  just  ere  the  fetters,  the  wily  god  wove, 
Were  entwin'd  round  my  soul  too  resistless  to  sever, 

Dame  Reason  slept  in  with  a  lecture  on  love, 
So  I  slipp'd  thro'  the  links  and  absconded  forever. 

But  deem  my  affection  nor  light  —  nor  untrue  — 

For  time  cannot  alter,  nor  circumstance  mar  it ; 
There's  none,  my  dear  girl,  I  love  better  then  you  — 

But  how  would  you  like  to  be  starv'd  in  a  garret  ? 
In  short,  I  've  been  musing  on  love  and  his  laws, 

And  would  follow  his  track  tho'  it  led  to  destruction, 
Could  we  fatten,  like  Bruin,  by  chewing  our  paws, 

Or  live,  my  dear  Nelly,  like  woodcocks,  by  suction. 

That  our  tribe  should  be  poor,  as  our  visions  are  bright 
Is  a  changeless  resolve  of  the  muses  intended. 


262  AN  HONEST  EPISTLE. 

Lest  the  weight  of  our  pockets  should  cumber  our 

flight, 

For  the  fav'rites  of  mammon  have  seldom  ascended, 
And  yet  when  I  think  of  my  Nelly  so  kind, 

I  can  envy  the  care  hunting,  earth-fetter'd   block 
heads, 
For  O,  to  make  up  for  the  feast  of  the  mind, 

If  they  've  lead  in  their  heads,  they  have  gold  in 
their  pockets. 

0  heed  not  the  world,  should  it  say  that  my  heart 

Is  more  false  than  the  moon,  or  the  wave,  or  the 

weather ; 
Let  it  rail  as  it  will  —  to  be  eating  apart 

Is  better,  believe  me,  than  starving  together. 
So  fare  thee  well.  Ellen,  my  bark's  in  the  bay, 

But  still  there's  a  solace  in  store  for  our  sorrow : 
For  I  can  put  up  with  my  loss  of  today, 

And  you  can  get  plenty  of  lovers  tomorrow. 


WAR  SONG  OP  THE  GREEK. 

WHY  slumber  our  swords  in  their  scabbards  tonight  ? 
Even  the  instinct  of  vengeance  will  serve  us  for  light ; 
Not  the  slouch  hound  that  tracks  us,  is  truer  of  scent 
Than  the  instinct  that  leads  to  the  infidel's  tent. 

Shall  the  infidel  dance  by  the  flame  of  our  fanes, 
While  there's  death  on  our  falchions  —  or  life  in  our 

veins  ? 

O  no !  —  by  the  altars  of  Him  we  adore, 
We  will  perish,  or  quench  them  in  infidel's  gore. 

We  pant  not  for  honor  —  such  honor  as  springs 
From  the  hatred  of  nations  — the  envy  of  kings  j 
But  our  altars  —  our  homes  —  and  our  liberties  lie 
In  the  track  of  the  despot —  that  despot  is  nigh. 

Hark !  hear  ye  their  timbrels  —  our  tyrants  have  met 

To  rejoice  at  the  sun  of  our  liberty  set : 

Have  we  chance  for  a  choice?  —  are  we  renegades  ? 

No- 
Then,  thus  onward  to  ruin  —  to  glory  we  go  . 


264  WAR  SONG  OF  THE  GREEK. 

They  rush'd  to  the  battle  like  foam  onthe  flood, 
And  they  storm'd  the  Turk's  tent,  and  they  drank 

the  Turk's  blood; 

And  their  war  shout  rose  high  mid  the  infidel's  yell, 
As  they  charged,  wheeled  and  rallied — and  triumph'd 
and  fell. 


STANZAS 

'     .  INSCRIBED    TO   R.    B. 

•  T  is  well  the  world  's  at  variance  !  —  well  the  heart 

Has  fits  of  desolation  to  alloy  it ; 
For  were  it  one  wide,  calm,  and  cloudless  mart 

Of  pleasure,  who  alas!   could  e'er  enjoy  it? 
All  human  gladness  ha-s  its.  gloomy  part. 

Which  serves  to  brighten,  rather  than  to  cloy  it, 
Joy  deadens  in  the  lapse,  while  grief  and  trouble 
Improve  the  zest,  and  make  the  pleasure  double. 

And  Oh !  the  highest,  heavenliest  gift  of  Heaven, 
Love  filtered  of  its  phrenzy,  FRIENDSHIP,  who 

Amid  a  world  so  passionless  and  even 

Had  known  thee  ?  —  none  !  —  the  happy  never  do  : 

The  heart  must  be  unhinged,  and  bowed,  and  riven. 
And  spurned  by  all  mankind,  save  one  or  two. 

Who,  as  the  dark'ning  ruin  that  impends 

Around  us  totters,  fly  not  —  these  are  FRIENDS. 

Even  such  is  he,  for  whom  the  muse  tonight, 
Would  fain  the  wreath  of  deathless  song  entwine, 

Not  as  a  snare  to  lure  the  rich  man's  mite  ! 
Not  as  a  sacrifice  to  Mammon's  shrine  ; 

Y 


266  STANZAS. 

By  heaven !  no  feeling  aids  her  in  her  flight, 

From  which  to  wring  one  mercenary  line  5 
No,  heavenly  muse  !  contented  with  our  bays, 
We  seek  no  tribute  but  a  smile  of  praise. 

Oh !  were  his  power  as  boundless  as  his  mind. 
There  's  not  a  plague-spot  in  the  world  but  then 

His  bounty  had  pervaded  like  the  wind,     .  ~ 
Such  is  his  feeling  towards  his  fellow  men ; 

'T  is  pity  power  so  free,  should  be  confined  — 
He  gives  and  suffers,  yet  he  gives  again, 

Unswayed  by  worldly  reasons,  rules,  and  tacts, 

Even  as  his  nature  prompts  him,  so  he  acts. 

Oh!  what  destruction  to  the  nobler  springs 
Of  nature,  yet  how  moulded  with  our  clay3 

That  cold  economy,  which  ever  flings 
Its  finger  forward  to  a  darker  day  — 

Thus  smothering  mercy,  —  rending  all  the  strings 
Of  feeling,  as  we  turn  the  wretch  away 

With  hunger-smitten  eye,  and  hollow  cheek, 

Lest  we   should  want  the  boon   he  craves  —  next 
week. 

Some  men  there  are,  so  mark'd  amid  the  crowd, 
By  hope  —  soul  —  passion  —  feeling  —  brightly 
blent  j 


STANZAS.  267 

They  seem,  designed  alone,  for  stations  proud, 
The  beacons  of  the  world  —  whom  Nature  meant 

Formonarchs  !  till  Corruption's  minions  bowed 
The  minds  of  men  and  baffled  her  intent ; 

Thus  kings  are  oft  impotent,  lowly  things  — 

Thus  humbler  men  betimes  seemed  formed  for  kings. 

O  thou  !  O  thou  !  so  high  amid  the  best, 

Whose  crimes*re  only  in  their  lack  of  power ; 

A  monarch's  heart  is  bounding  in  thy  breast  — 
Would  it  were  coupled  with  a  monarch's  dower ! 

Long  be  the  number  of  thy  days  —  if  blest  — 
Bright  be  the  visions  of  thy  latest  hour, 

Those  blissful  scenes  so  dear  to  dying  eyes, 

The  fluttering  spirit  pants  to  realise. 

And  when  that  thou  art  dead  —  and  when  the   clod 
That  claims  our  ruined  tenements,  hath  clung 

Around  thee,  wedded  to  thy  parent  sod, 

Thy  dole  shall  long  from  many  a  heart  be  wrung ; 

Thou  canst  not  go  unhonored  to  thy  God, 

Breathes  one  lorn  harp,  thou  shall  not  go  unsung  ; 
•  And  Oh  !  if  life  hath  one  redeeming  bliss, 

^T  is  in  the  hope  of  such  a  death  as  this. 


THE  POET'S  GRAVE. 

No  home  had  he,  the  mountain  brown 
His  lone  and  lowly  couch  supplied, 
And  not  a  star  from  heaven  looked  down, 
What  time  the  wandering  minstrel  died  ; 

Upon  that  hill 

He  slumbers  still, 
No  sculptured  urn  records  the  spot, 

But  pity's  tear 

Bedewed  his  bier, 
For  strangers  mourned,  that -knew  him  not. 

Whence  came  that  minstrel  ?  —  from  a  clime 

Far  distant  o  'er  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Where  freedom  was  so  wild  a  crime, 
That  none  but  outlaws  dared  be  free, 

A  felon  band 

Laid  waste  the  land, 
Her  slaves  were  bought  —  her  freemen  bledv 

That  minstrel's  songs 

Proclaimed  her  wrongs, 
His  sword  avenged  them  —  and  he  fled, 


THE  POET'S  GRAVE.  & 

His  country  now  his  home  no  more. 
Dejected,  heartless,  and  alone, 

He  sought  upon  a  distant  shore. 
For  that  denied  him  in  his  own. 
His  fortunes  fled. 
Ambition  dead, 

Himself  a  heartless  wanderer,  driven, 
Without  a  ray- 
To  cheer  his  way, 

Without  a  friend  —  a  hope,  but  heaven. 

Lament  —  lament,  ye  sons  of  song, 

And  chaunt  your  dirge  notes  round  his  grave, 
There  fell  a  brother  of  your  throng, 
To  famine,  and  to  grief  a  slave, 

Yet  why  lament, 

He  died  content, 
No  lingering  look  10  life  he  cast, 

His  hours  were  rife 

With  grief  and  strife, 
But  there  in  peace  he  sleeps  at  last. 


STANZAS. 

DEAD  !  —  dead !  —  ah  no !  in  mercy  "say  not  dead !  — 
Or  charge  the  word  with  lightning  —  come  despair ! 

Her  marble  cheek  proclaims  her  spirit  fled,  — 
Her  glassy  eye,  that  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Oh  !  tell  me  not  of  patience  —  can  it  burst 
The  links  of  memory,  or  the  life  restore  ? 

Or  realize  the  hope  my  soul  has  nursed  ? 
You  answer  no  —  then  strive  to  soothe  no  more. 

Can  this  be  Lucia?  —  fondly  would  I  trace 

The  soul  that  danc'd  like  sunbeams  on  her  brow ; 
But  all  is  dark  along  that  frozen  face; 

0  misery  —  misery,  where  is  Lucia  now  ? 

ItOy    3, 

I  knew  1  loved  you,  Lucia —  but  before 

1  never  felt  the  power  that  word  implied; 
I  knew  't  was  wedded  to  my  spirit's  core. 

But  never  felt  how  deeply  till  you  died. 

Desist  ye  slaves  !  't  were  treason  to  your  race, 
To  heap  corruption  on  her  form  of  bloom  ; 

The  grave  may  suit  the  sinful  and  the  base  ; 
A  bower  were  fitter  for  my  Lucia's  tomb. 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 

fc'  ° 

O  LEAVE  the  gloomy  city 

For  the  mountain  and  the  vale, 
Where  the  ploughman  trolls  his  ditty, 

And  the  flowers  permme  the  gale. 
Aye  brooding  o'er  thy  treasures 

Like  the  Gnome  that  guards  a  mine, 
O  how  lofty  are  my  pleasures 

When  comparisoned  with  thine. 

Thou  hast  never  roamed  the  mountain 

With  a  pointer  and  a  gun, 
Or  reclined  thee  by  a  fountain 

Partly  shaded  from  the  sun  ; 
Where  the  golden  gleams  that  shiver 

Through  the  glancing  branches  high, 
Fall  in  showers  upon  the  river 

As  it  rolls  in  music  by. 

Thou  hast  never  haply  wandered 

With  the  lady  of  thy  love, 
Where  the  glassy  brook  meandered 

Through  a  lonely  sunlit  grove, 


272  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 

Where  the  branches  darkly  wreathing, 
Bared  the  beauty  of  her  eyes. 

And  the  flowers  around  thee  breathing 
Gave  their  incense  to  her  sighs. 

And  O  !  the  bliss  of  blisses, 

Thou  hast  never  roamed  the  tide 
In  a  shallop  built  for  kisses. 

With  that  lady  there  beside  ; 
Believe  me,  such  a  minute 

On  the  lonely  laughing  foa"m, 
Hath  a  trill  of  rapture  in  it, 

Worth  an  age  of  bliss  at  home. 

Then  come  to  where  the  heather 

Spreads  her  mantle  on  the  hill, 
And  we  '11  roam  the  wilds  together, 

Or  we  '11  rest  beside  the  rill, — 
And  we  '11  spurn  the  canker  glooming 

On  thy  wrinkled  visage  'now, 
Till  the  brightest  roses  blooming 

Shall  be  mirrored  in  thy  brow. 


THE  BONNY  BRUNETTE. 

O  TALK  not  to  me  of  her  bosom  of  snow, 

And  her  tresses  of  auburn  so  fair, 
Give  me  the  brown  girl,  with  a  bright  sunny  glow, 

And  a  cluster  of  glossy  black  hair. 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  her  seraph  blue  eye, 

So  mild  —  so  unchangingly  bright ; 
My  Laura's  are  black,  but  their  quick  flashes  fly 

In  mixtures  of  darkness  and  light.         . 

Now  veiling  their  glories  behind  the  dark  lash, 

In  the  home  of  their  lustre  they  roll : 
Now  gilding  her  face,  with  a  warm  sunny  flash, 

Till  her  brow  seems  the  seat  of  her  soul. 

O  !  the  noontide  of  summer  is  dazzling  to  see, 

In  its  shadowless  lustre  profound  ; 
But  the  glory  of  sunset  is  dearer  to  rne, 

With  its  purple  clouds  floating  around. 

O !    there 's  something  too  still,  too  unchangingly 

bright 
In  the  calm  of  the  shadowless  blue, 


274  THE  BONNY  BRUNETTE. 

While  sunset  still  hovers,  'twixt  shadow  and  light, 
For  ever  unceasing  and  new. 

Thus  Chloe,  is  fair  as  the  summer  day  morn, 
And  cloudless,  and  tranquil,  —  but  yet 

There  is  something  more  dear  in  the  shades  that 

adorn 
The  cheeks  of  my  Bonny  Brunette. 


SERENADE. 

O  COME  to  me,  Mary,  or  let  but  the  light 

Of  your  countenance  gleam  from  the  lattice  tonight ; 

Even  the  moonbeams  fall  heavy  and  dim  to  mine 

eyes, 
As  they  watch  for' the  star  of  their  worship  to  rise. 

Yet  so  rich  is  the  heaven  in  its  purple  profound, 
And  so  brilliant  the  landscape  that 's  laughing  around, 
It  would    seem  tho'  each   planet  that  wanders  on 

high, 
Was  dissolved,  and  suffused  over  landscape  and  sky. 

But  you  know,  my  dear  Mary,  that  lovers  are  blind, 
Save  the  object  of  sight,  be  the  object  of  mind  ; 
So  in  vain  have  the  planets  their  brilliancies  thrown, 
I  can  see  by  the  light  of  one  planet  alone. 

Then  cpme  to  me,  lady,  believe  me  'twere  wrong 
To  resist  all  the  charms  of  love,  moonlight  and  song: 
'Tis  the  moment   when  beauty  to  passion   should 

fly, 

'T  is  the  moment,  dear  Mary,  for  love,  you  and  I. 


276  SERENADE. 

Should  guardians  look  gloomy,  or  parents  reprove, 
O  make  no  excuse,  maid,  but  tell  them  you  .love, 
If  their  natures   be  human,  they  '11  cease  to  con 
demn, 
And  if  not,  then  you  owe  no  allegiance  to  them. 


ERRATA.  —  Page  143,  line  18,  for 

"  In  which  the  soul  is  all  at  rest ;  " 
read  — 

"  In  which  the  soul  is  ill  at  rest." 


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